


This Could Lead to Something

by KnyleBorealis



Series: In the Shadow of the Blue Mountain [1]
Category: Laramie (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Can I have a western without all the racism and sexism and all those other -isms, Episode One, Jess against the world, POV Jess, Sure if I make it myself, Wild West, and there was magic?, guess I will, hey look I did, stage stop, what if America didn't suck so bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26710807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnyleBorealis/pseuds/KnyleBorealis
Summary: “There’s a real future here, Jess. Finest cow country in Wyoming territory.” Slim looked over, earnest and hopeful. “What do ya say? This could lead to something.”“Yeah, it sure could,” Jess agreed. He wasn’t thinking about cows. “Trouble.”In a different Wild West, on a different path through history, the most important parts of life are still the same. America is a little wiser, the Frontier is, in many ways, a lot broader. The Earth is certainly livelier. But Jess Harper? Still a sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued Texas devil with a heart of gold and a long, dark shadow. Slim Sherman? Still an upstanding, honest, hardworking big brother, as forthright and dependable as the land he loves. And when life brings them together, they're both short a best friend. Slim's right (he always is): this could lead to something.Laramie S1E1: Stage Stop. AU.
Series: In the Shadow of the Blue Mountain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1943863
Comments: 24
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first AO3 work, and because I cannot do anything without creating the maximum amount of work for myself, it is the first part of a series, based in an alternate America that I have spent many wistful hours imagining.
> 
> Laramie introduced me to one of the first bromances I ever had the pleasure of watching, and so I’m here to showcase our boys in a setting that doesn’t detract from the magic. I even threw in magic! This is my attempt to enjoy Laramie without any compromises: in a world where all people are people, imperial powers actually get their just desserts once in a while, and nature truly has the power to fight back. It’s a wild, wild west.
> 
> Along with everyone and their mother, I’m starting at the beginning: Stage Stop. The first episode will come through pretty strong here. I’ve tried to fix a few logical errors that always bugged me, and I’ll be sowing in bits and pieces for my through-story, but we’re laying a simple, solid foundation. Later, we’re going off script.
> 
> Enjoy!

The Frontier was an easy place to feel alone. No setting was wilder or more alive, but a man could never escape just how small he was in a landscape that big and open. The sun beamed lonely heat down from a cloudless sky, warming the scent of sage and creosote on the breeze. Gaze bent below the smoky blue peaks on the horizon, a lone rider made his way across the rolling chaparral. Another ant, far from its hill. Or, maybe, if he was enduring enough, a gnarled old tree, twisted by time and hard living but rooted stubbornly in bedrock, lucky enough to have tapped sweetwater.

Roots were never Jess’s inclination. When he felt a wind coming, something in his nature had him leaning in out of spite, but it was never long before his heels were tipping up, squall at his back and eyes on the horizon. Roots were for people with a reason to stay planted. And if he’d ever bothered to waste thoughts on metaphor, he’d reckon a tree far more likely to get struck by lightning or chopped up for firewood than to stand wild and defiant for a few hundred years.

A signpost interrupted the view of scrub and hillock out past his hat brim; he urged his horse into a faster clip, sharp eyes scanning every shadow in the stretch between him and the letters. If he’d planned it right, he’d be in the next frontier town by midmorning, and not just for Traveler’s sake for once. He owed his horse a rest and some store-bought feed after the long trail since Colorado. It’d been three days since he ate a meal indoors and even longer since he’d scraped a few layers of trail dust off his sunbeaten hide, too. Usually, though, even that wasn’t enough to bring him in past fences and rooflines, tracking a hill’s worth of dirt onto streets where buildings bent the wind out of shape and people’s eyes squinted suspiciously over dutiful hellos. Towns never favored newcomers with six shooters slung low on their hips. Jess figured quittin’ his gun was the same as giving up on a gutshot-free existence, though, so he’d quit towns instead. Much as he could, anyhow.

But towns meant supplies, and not just the kind that filled a man’s stomach. Information. Allies. Places for rats to hide. Places for him to go searching.

Certain that his surroundings held no immediate surprises, Jess turned his attention to the carefully-painted name on the post up ahead: LARAMIE, 2 MILES. The Treaty’s prolific symbol hung on its own plank below the town’s: a colorful, quartered circle set in a white, six-pointed star. A person couldn’t escape that mark out in the Big Open; it graced every chartered settlement’s postings, legitimized every wanted poster, flew brazenly on every territorial prison’s flag. Of course, most people didn’t have shadows as long and dark as his and didn’t see a need to escape the cussed thing. 

Treaty law did right by the folks who stayed on its good side. With a crooked smirk, Jess touched his hat in mock salute and rode on, leaving the emblem to bleach brighter in the western sun.

Laramie. He hoped it would be the last stop of many on his hunt. As far as towns in the Big Open went, the Wyoming territory only had a few worth marking on a map, just Cheyenne, Casper, and Sheridan…on a full moon. Jess had heard a few good stories about each of them, knew they’d each had their share of trouble—his share, in a few cases—but Laramie? Big enough for a saloon, if he was lucky, but sure to be as sleepy and unassuming as a settlement in Treaty territory could get. Hopefully, that made it just the sort of place a no-account thief like Pete Morgan might lay low.

Jess was counting on his old partner’s cowardice to keep him out of the bigger cesspits of the west and his weakness for easy money to keep him in arm’s reach of a playing deck. It was all he had to go on; Morgan had pulled a better disappearing act than a professional magician. Dumb as he was, that probably meant he had help. Jess could only hope the man’s new allies weren’t too loyal, but he’d fight ’em all if he had to. 

At least he still had towns to check. It was laughable to think Morgan might have fallen in with one of the First Nation bands roaming neutral territory, but he was running out of eastern settlements to check. Once he hit the northern border, he’d have to swing back around and start asking the westerners if they’d seen his snake of an ex-partner. Jess dearly hoped Morgan hadn’t inflicted himself on any of those folk.

Of course, odds were, the money he’d stolen was long gone. Jess was aiming to pull even on another score, anyway. One where a fractured skull and broken promises weighed a lot heavier than paper bills.

He breathed in deep through his nose and scanned the hills again, mostly-healed scalp prickling where Pete’s gun had split it. Pete wasn’t the first friend to turn foe. Given Jess’s luck, he didn’t expect the greedy skunk to be the last, either. But maybe a long, loud talk over bloody knuckles would get the word around Wyoming territory that Jess Harper wasn’t one to cross lightly. He was spreading that message through the Frontier as widely as he could manage, one backstabbing compatriot at a time. The thought had the scars on his knuckles itching, too, and Jess huffed, wondering what sort of participation the citizens of Laramie would muster if he and Pete started a brawl.

Traveler’s hooves had a way of turning miles into smooth minutes. It wasn’t long before he caught a whiff of woodsmoke and snatches of hammering metal, creaking wheels. People ahead: milling about in their nets of promises and responsibilities. Though at that range, he usually heard more voices from a town than he did from Laramie. Easing Traveler into a faster trot, Jess sighted smoke warping the air out ahead and followed the road down and around the hills, descending into a flat valley bottom where forty or so buildings huddled close to a wide main road. From above, the neatly-platted streets and alleyways of Laramie looked deserted. Hackles rising, Jess left the high vantage point behind and rounded the first house into town.

Deserted wasn’t quite the right word for the atmosphere in Laramie. It fit better when a mother ran out to snatch her boy back inside, slamming her front door behind her. But there was too much energy in the air for Jess to believe it. People were there, all right, alive and on a hair trigger. Up the street, a saloon girl poked her flowered head out past swinging doors, craning her neck at him, but he didn’t get much past a raised eyebrow before the barkeep appeared to pull her back in. The town was coiled up like a spring, battened down and waiting for something to happen.

Eyes always scanning, Jess listened to a community holding its breath. Distantly, he noted the familiar feel of mother-of-pearl under his fingers; his hand didn’t wait for him to think about reaching for his gun. Also unasked, Traveler moved slower, minimizing the extra noise in Jess’s ears. The young gunman could still hear hammering in the smithy, just two doors down. He knew folks were shifting around near the general store’s creaky cash register, could tell that a lone man was walking slowly around behind him. There were more men between the buildings, scuffing their boots on the boardwalk and clinking their spurs against each other.

His keener instincts were clamoring for him to turn tail and ride out of there, but something in Jess always went contrary to his best interests. It kept him moving forward. Just as much as he knew he was riding up on a hornet’s nest, he knew, somehow, that Laramie had exactly what he was looking for. 

Besides, his horse was tired. He was tired. There was no reason to believe that the town was looking to start strife with him. If somebody would bother to come out and have a conversation with him, he could make it clear that his brand of trouble wasn’t the type they were bracing for.

Out stepped just such a man, silver star glinting on his vest. At that distance, Jess couldn’t see how the badge was inscribed. One kind of angry official was as bad as the next, anyhow. The stranger cocked his rifle as he glowered out into the sunny street. “Hold it.”

Jess was more concerned with the man he could hear prowling around behind him than an ornery lawman that he could plainly see. Traveler didn’t stop, and Jess didn’t correct him, earning a fiercer scowl from Laramie’s dour protector. He eyed his options. A few more steps, and they could turn off onto another road, out of the direct line of fire.

“I’m telling you to stop, mister!”

A rifle cocked behind him, and Jess decided he’d better hear his instincts out, turning his horse down the side street as the man up ahead angrily brought his rifle up to his shoulder. Shots chased horse and rider as they galloped past Laramie’s storefronts and dwellings. The men he’d heard appeared around every corner, it seemed: armed, deputized, and firing wildly. The town’s edge was close, though, and Traveler knew better than to save his speed with bullets whizzing all around.


	2. Chapter 2

Jess felt a tug on his jacket as they rounded a corral and headed back up into the hills, but no sting or impact accompanied it. Wondering where that luck had come from, he directed his mount around every bend and obstacle he could until he was certain that no one was following them. Skin crawling, Jess shook his head loose of adrenaline. There wasn’t anyone in pursuit. Laramie had its fangs bared and its claws out, but it was fighting like a cornered animal, not one out on the prowl. Finally letting himself breathe easy, he gave Traveler some lead and turned his thoughts to finding a place where they both could rest.

He wanted cover and a vantage point, hopefully someplace he could put a wall at his back. Like a bad omen with a crooked sense of humor, a cemetery came into view around the next bend. It was nearly full; somebody had started planting fenceposts on the far side to make an expansion. Nodding to the only kind of people he always got along with, Jess spared one long glance at the headstones and then turned away. He wasn’t the superstitious type—at least, not about that sort of place—but granite slabs and crosses went to decent folk for their decent families to remember them by. It’d been a long time since he’d thought of himself as somebody with a proper burial marker waiting.

As a welcome distraction, another signpost turned up where the cemetery abutted the road, giving him two options. One road went flat, the other upwards; he begrudgingly accepted that high ground was as good as he’d get. Traveler seemed as glad to leave the graves behind as he was, climbing energetically up the slope. Turned out, Baxter Ridge was tall enough to see the hilltops all around for miles, though the valleys and hollows in between remained secret. Jess took what he could get and started scouting for a place to hide out from the afternoon sun and any would-be followers.

As he did, a glint of quicksilver caught his eye, and the wind shifted direction, bringing burbling water to his ears. A stream sparkled down below, coming more into view as Traveler gained the top of the ridge. Chewing his lip, Jess swung another look around at the open country encompassing him, giving Laramie’s direction a hot glare before grimacing down at his lathered, panting horse. No oats for his loyal steed, but water he could and would do. Reasoning that he couldn’t borrow any more trouble that day than he had already, he pulled Traveler’s head until the horse scented the water on the wind. Ears perking, the bay enthusiastically picked his way down into the green valley after refreshment.

A fence loomed up just moments later, and Jess had to laugh. There was the water, clearly on the other side. After the Treaty had been established, nobody dared to mark a boundary in the Frontier without clear legal claim to do so, and getting such rights was a fight like few had ever fought. Made folks extra hostile to trespassers. Jess turned Traveler to walk the fence line. If he was lucky, the stream would exit the property, and they could have their respite without any bother. 

But he wasn’t lucky; he was Jess Harper.

The stream cornered not too far up ahead, curling even farther away from the fence. A sign was posted right at the bend, proudly proclaiming its tree and all the land behind the fence to be property of some ranch and prohibiting trespass. The Treaty seal winked crudely at him from the sign’s corner, and Jess’s next laugh was bitter. He might’ve moved on, if not for that cursed little mark. Spotting a wide, flat stretch on either side of the fence, he clicked and brought Traveler around where he’d have some room, giving the horse a few running steps before jumping him right over the barbed wire. His mount cleared the obstacle easily. Traveler was the finest horse Jess had ever ridden, and that was a fact. Jess gave him an appreciative pat and some sweet words of encouragement. No woman would ever hear him croon like he did to his horse, and Jess liked it just fine that way.

Choosing a gently sloping spot in the shade, the young gunman dismounted and rubbed Traveler down as best he could without unsaddling him. He trusted the bay to keep close, so he didn’t hobble him, leaving him to drink and graze as he would. Then it was his turn; judging the stream’s current to be safe enough, he knelt and drank, scrubbing some of the grit off his hands and face after he’d had his fill. The water wicked up through his shirt and the Henley beneath it. Jess watched the dark stain creep through the fabric, passing over a bar of blue cotton that stayed inexplicably clean and dry around each wrist. He could feel the same happening around his shirt collar.

Grimacing, Jess pulled up his sleeves and slid his fingers below the loose leather loop around his right wrist, circling below the thin strip of hide just to feel water against the shockingly clean skin there. He went to do the same to his left and wound up gripping over the tie instead, wet fingers encircling a band of skin that stayed as stubbornly dry as the leather atop it. He stared at his arm for a moment, pretending his hand had erased the leather band, leaving just his own scarred knuckles and forearm behind.

The image was ruined a moment later; there was more leather on the other wrist, sliding down toward the base of his hand under the weight of a small copper clasp. With a grimace, he shook himself out of the reverie and let go of his arm. Tucking fingers below the strip of brown around his throat, he made sure it was riding well below his shirt collar and forced himself to let it lie there. At least it had slackened over time. At the start, it’d sat high and tight, and he’d developed the habit of tying his bandana the same way to keep it hidden.

The wind gentled to a warm waft of summer smells, and he mourned the mounting heat, running wet hands through his thatch of dark hair before replacing his hat. Twisting his bandana in the water, Jess retied the cool, wet fabric around his neck, overpowering his shirts’ ability to stay dry, and gave the streamside an approving once-over.

There were cattle lowing and stomping over the next hill. He’d caught a glimpse of them on the approach, but it was too early in the season for a drive. Barring a surprise inspection by their owner, he didn’t expect them to be monitored. Even better, he couldn’t hear or smell any other signs of humans nearby. Something told him that was a rarity that he’d better take advantage of. Adrenaline fully ebbing, Jess sighed and plucked a head of grass to chew on, standing up to choose a good napping spot.

He’d barely settled down against a log, tipping his hat over his eyes to block the sun, when Traveler nickered an unwelcome hello. Company. Jess tensed to react, but to his shock, his reflexes weren’t fast enough. A rifle cocked, jarringly close. A man’s voice warned over it, “Keep your hands where they are.”

Jess started more out of alarm than intent to disobey, but the stranger didn’t know that.

“Ah! Don’t move.”

Grass rustled faintly; Jess could hardly distinguish the man’s footsteps from the breeze blowing foliage around. Stewing under his tilted hat, hands dangling up behind his head, he chewed his inner lip, chagrined and irked. Last time he’d been snuck up on by someone that quiet, there was half a year left of the civil war. But it was 1870; there was no reason for a western scout to be on his trail. Maybe there was a contingent of Treaty forces nearby.

“Just stay right where ya are.” The stranger was far too close for comfort, and hearing him speak again, Jess highly doubted he was First Nation. The voice was all wrong. Boots and chaps rounded the log into his limited view, cementing the disparity. “What are you doin’ here?”

Interrogations, at least, were familiar territory. Settling back into the comfortable mental grooves of a hotheaded troublemaker, Jess retorted, “Gettin’ a crick in my back. Let me know when I can get up.”

The stranger stopped less than a horse-length away. He didn’t sound impressed. “Give me your gun.”

Few words ever got Jess madder in a bigger hurry. Tamping down quickly on the urge to meet that demand with the cuss-out it deserved, the dark-haired rider set his jaw and slowly lowered his shooting hand towards his belt, taking care to think about what he was doing. Drawing on instinct would only get him shot in that position.

“Take it slow,” his new warden chastised him, and Jess quelled a smirk. Compared to most folk, even his slow and deliberate movements were fast. 

He wished dearly that he was on his feet; in most circumstances, he could outdraw anyone in a heartbeat. He wished to all hell that he could _see_ ; trying to imagine the person that belonged to that stern voice and those whisper-quiet steps was taking up too much of his brain. He liked his mind quiet when the stakes were up. Kept his muddy thoughts from getting in the way of his much-superior instincts.

Hating every smidgen of the action, Jess lifted his gun high and felt it snatched away. In spite of himself, he nearly lashed out in the instant that the metal ripped from his fingertips, but a crystal-clear memory of a rifle cocking replayed over the flare of red behind his eyes. Like a death knell, it echoed so loud in his skull that even Jess’s deepest-running mean streak bowed to his survival instincts. He stayed put.

Until: “All right, you can get up.”

Jess was upright in an instant, barely aware of the woozy rush of fluids realigning in his body. He righted his hat first thing, and as soon as he laid eyes on his companion, he was forced to discard the idea of a westerner entirely. Mouth open, he looked up and down at the looming, blond, blue-eyed cowboy holding him at gunpoint and wondered in all seriousness if he’d just gone deaf when the giant stomped up behind him. People from the east didn’t walk quiet like the wind. People from the east didn’t get the drop on Jess Harper. And people from the east sure as _shootin’_ didn’t get to take away Jess Harper’s gun. Surprise dropped to the back of his mind. Jess was mad, and that settled him quicker than any logic or reason ever could.

“Where you headed?” the big man questioned. Jess spent more time assessing him with his eyes than he did thinking through his answer.

“West,” he snapped, which, on average, was true.

The other fella had at least a head of height on him and maybe half a foot in either direction on his shoulders. He was built lean, dressed like a rancher, and held the rifle in his hands comfortably, though there were a few weaknesses in his stance. Obviously, he was too big to be careful how he held himself—probably had never needed technique, with his size. A smug part of Jess quickly decided how he’d exploit that. It wouldn’t be hard to trick the brute, he wagered. The other man had an open face, unmarred except for a slender scar on his cheek, and a steady set to his hands and eyes. Honest eyes, those. Weren’t many shadows for tricks to hide in. Likely they wouldn’t spot tricks too easily, either.

Brawn to brawn, Jess figured he’d be hard-pressed to match the blond in a fight, but he could tell just by looking that he was meaner and angrier than anything the stranger could muster. The young gunman’s confidence regained its footing. Imperceptibly, he bent his knees and loosened his shoulders as their terse exchange continued.

The bigger man didn’t like his answer. Brows knitting, he pointed out, “There’s a road going west.”

“Yeah, with ruts a foot deep in it,” Jess confirmed, gesturing to where Traveler was ostensibly chewing a juniper sprig behind the blond, both ears cocked and alert to the two men. His trusty steed was standing directly beside the no trespassing sign, practically touching the Treaty emblem carved into it. What good humor Jess had left found that very funny. “He don’t like ’em.”

The stranger backed up, sparing a glance for the horse and a longer look for the sign. A muscle twitched in his jaw, deepening Jess’s enjoyment, and when he met the brunet’s eyes again, his gaze was flinty. “Looks like he’s had a long, hard ride.”

Clearly, there was residual sweat on Traveler, and his gear was dusty. Jess heard an insinuation of mistreatment in the stranger’s voice, though, and he bristled just as quick as he had when the man took his pistol. Only sunlight glinting off a rifle barrel kept him civil. Intimidating men often reacted poorly to a lighthearted façade; Jess embraced his penchant for mocking politeness. “Any law against that?”

The rancher blatantly studied the brand on Traveler’s rump. “Oh, that all depends.”

“That’s a Texas brand,” Jess stated firmly, letting his drawl substantiate the claim alongside his words. Inwardly, he ground his teeth. Stealing horses was a big thing to imply. Horsethieves swung high in the Big Open. “You wanna see the bill of sale?”

“All I wanna see is your dust,” the big blond countered, glaring down the barrel of his rifle. In his huge hand, the gun looked like a toy. He didn’t bother supporting it with both arms, which wasn’t doing his form any good but made a solid impression of casual strength. “Heading either way you wanna go, but on that road. This is private property.”

He could’ve put a lot more venom into those last words, Jess granted him, and that showed plenty of restraint. Traveler was lipping along the edge of the no trespassing sign by that point, cheeky as all get out, and Jess loved the darn animal for it...even as he fought down recurring urges to charge and punch and claw until he had his beloved sidearm back in his hand. If the stranger could refrain from biting his head off with insults and death threats, then Jess figured he could at least pretend to be cheerfully compliant a bit longer.

Covering a tiny smirk at his horse with his hand, Jess mustered a convincing smile and bent for his coat. “I’d be glad to oblige you.” As he put it on, walking to his mount, he couldn’t resist a few parting shots of impertinence. “I had a few swallows of your private stream. My horse helped himself, too.” Close as they were, he managed to hear the cowboy moving to cover him from behind, though he was still quieter than any man Jess had ever met. “So you just figure out what I owe ya, and I’ll be on my way.” He swung into the saddle, tracking the blond’s every move with his ears as he turned, still mocking. “Oh, and I looked at a bird flying over. Will there be a charge for that?”

Cornflower blue eyes narrowed at him over an unamused frown. He’d struck a nerve, though, because the rancher stepped closer to explain his breach in hospitality. “If you owned this spread, you’d be leery of strangers, too. This is the only water this side of Laramie.” He inclined his head towards the sign and its Treaty seal. “And it happens to be on _my_ property.”

He spent a second staring at the star and circle, and that was half a second more than Jess needed. Snatching the rifle barrel, the raven-haired man shoved the stock back into the bigger man’s jaw, kicked him in the chest, and yanked the gun loose as he fell back, turning it on him in an instant. On his knees, the rancher blinked down the barrel of his own firearm as Jess dropped every semblance of cheer.

Shouldering the rifle, the rider ordered coldly, “Now give me my gun.”

Pursing his lips, the blond rose to comply. Though it was tempting, Jess didn’t waste any time reveling in their reversal of fortunes. His adrenaline was up again, spine prickling with the urge to dig his heels in, get Laramie and its inhospitable residents far behind him. He didn’t let the rifle barrel waver an inch as the tall blond carefully followed directions, finger ready on the trigger. He hadn’t read any cunning in the other man, but he’d known too many good liars to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Easy.” The blond handed over Jess’s sidearm. An acute wave of relief washed through him when his fingers wrapped around his gun’s smooth metal. Tucking it quickly into its holster, he held his hand out again, smiling a little when the other man’s frown deepened. “And yours.”

Scowling, the giant complied, handing over his piece. Its handle was fashioned from deeply grooved antler. Not Jess’s style, but handsome enough. All of a sudden, the brunet had three guns, and while he knew the value of a good weapon, he also knew what a big investment firepower was for most people. He was still mad—hopping mad—at getting his own gun taken away; it seemed mighty suiting to ride off with both of his new prizes. However, he was neither cruel nor a thief…most of the time. He’d drop the guns out of reach, but in sight, as he left. The stranger didn’t need to know that, though. And Jess wasn’t leaving without getting at least a bit of what he came for. It was his turn to conduct an interrogation.

“How often do you get into Laramie?” he asked, eyes intent on the other man’s face. Every emotion the big fella had seemed to pass through his expression, at least for a moment.

The blond drew a breath and let it out quick. His mood seemed to be settling towards frustrated chagrin. Jess was a little too familiar with the feeling. “Every week or so.”

“Anybody there named Pete Morgan?”

The cowboy was certainly cool-headed with a gun drawn on him, Jess gave him that. His eyes seemed a bit brighter than they had moments before; without suspicion clouding them, they shone out even more alert, intelligent. Jess didn’t see any fear in them. Judging the glitter in his gaze, he had his doubts that the man would be fooled twice. “Not that I know of.”

Well, if the man wasn’t scared, at least he was smart enough to know who was in charge. Jess lowered the rifle a bit as a courtesy, but his finger stayed on the trigger. “You ever hear of him?”

“Nope,” he replied curtly. Aloof and direct, the blond stared him down. There was anger in his eyes, but it didn’t run bone-deep like it did in Jess. The gunman could respect the other man’s composure. Course, didn’t change the fact that he’d disarmed the big oaf easier than picking a daisy. The rancher’s spine might be iron, but Jess had met ten-year-old kids with more grit.

“Well.” Jess lowered the rifle in one hand and jerked his thumb at the tree line, grinning crookedly in the way he knew made most men want to punch his lights out. “Stay outta those woods. I saw a jackrabbit in there, and he looked real mean.”

He rode off as his companion’s eyebrows rose, passing a horse tied, hidden, in some trees and heading for a low-hanging stretch of barbed wire near the cattle. The rancher had probably come out to fix it. Before he got out of sight, Jess glanced back and held out the rifle, making a show of dropping it and the man’s handgun into the thorniest patch of scrub brush he could see. Traveler hurdled the fence even easier than before, and they were off across the hills, leaving the clear-eyed, eerily-quiet cowboy in their dust. Just for spite, Jess rode off in a direction that made it clear he wasn’t headed for the road. He’d keep out of fences for a ways, but the blond’s land couldn’t go on forever. Even as a soldier, he’d never taken kindly to being ordered around.


	3. Chapter 3

Miles later, he crested a hill and saw a beautiful valley unfolding below him. A homestead nestled into the valley floor: a barn, house, and outbuildings next to a corral. Winding down into the valley, the main road ran straight and true down its middle up until the property, where it forked gently. One arm of the road went right through the place and then joined back with the other fork to continue eastward. It looked like a well-used stopover point of some sort.

Jess was well west of the homestead. Any other day, he’d avoid such a place, but as soon as he saw it, he smelled hot food on the breeze. Bread and stew, it seemed like. His stomach growled loudly. Knowing that noise well, Traveler lifted his nose, scenting the horses in the corral, pasture, and barn. He nickered. Jess swore he heard them whinny back.

“Promised you oats this morning, didn’t I?” he admitted. He started looking for an approach.

The fields around the buildings were fenced off, but if they went on a bit farther, they could cross to the road through a thicket and ride in on it without anyone being the wiser. He kicked Traveler up to speed and let the horse’s enthusiasm do the rest, keeping an eye on the fence posts they passed. No signs to be seen, and the hostile blond was miles behind them. He grinned.

Back on the road, he paid a bit more attention to guiding his horse. It looked like an army’s worth of wagons had rolled over that stretch, and there hadn’t been much rain to smooth out the ruts. They approached the homestead from the west, and as they neared it, human voices blew over to Jess’s ears. A man and a child: a boy, probably. He scanned the buildings until he picked them out, working in and beside the corral. The man, his back bent oddly, was rubbing down a horse, and the kid, no taller than the highest fence rail, was soaping a harness. From the tenor of their voices, they were arguing. Jess didn’t hear or smell any other people around, just horses, cows, and a legion of chickens. He was glad for it.

In the foreground, he saw two posts standing naked by the side of the road. There was a small sign on one of them: LARAMIE, 12 MILES. A bigger sign, made of several planks joined together, rested on sawhorses behind them. It looked freshly assembled; a can of white paint sat nearby, a brush and rag atop it, waiting for someone to come add the proper letters. A carving knife sat near the corner, shavings still clinging to it.

As Jess got closer, he could see the distinctive star and circle of the Treaty gouged into the wood, also awaiting paint. He pursed his lips, automatically looking for the red, yellow, and black paint they’d need for the west’s portion and irked that he didn’t see them. Then he got mad for caring about it at all and spurred Traveler past it faster. His bay snorted at him, unsympathetic. He gave the long-suffering horse an apologetic pat. The smell of food was getting stronger, at least, and it distracted the both of them from getting too riled.

He headed for the two males by the corral, slowing Traveler to his quietest walk. The little boy’s voice carried easily back to him, despite him facing away. “—if in the whole world, anybody’s wasted more elbow grease soaping harness than I have.”

“One comes to mind. Me,” the man retorted. He was older, nearly gray, and had an aura of backwoods wisdom to him. The bowler hat was a nice touch. Jess smiled.

“The way Slim acts, you’d think this spread was all his,” the child griped, swiping halfheartedly at the leather in his hands. “Ever since Pa died—”

The old man rounded on him, leaning in, and Jess wondered how he and Traveler hadn’t been seen or heard yet. The two of them were mighty concerned with their own doings, apparently. “You’d better thank your lucky stars that you’ve got a brother like—”

Finally, the horse with them decided to take matters into her own hands and neighed to Traveler, ears back in disgust at her caretaker’s poor vigilance. Both humans rounded to face Jess, who let his smile lie as it was, knowing they’d assume it was a greeting. Jess had never felt less threatened by a pair of working men before; he was swinging down from the saddle even before the kid told him good morning.

“Mornin’,” he returned, laying his reins over the rail. Figuring it was the common thing to ask, he inquired, “How far’s the next town?”

“What do you mean by ‘town?’” the man asked. He had a shrewd glint in his eye and a squint to his face. Jess got the feeling that it was his natural demeanor and didn’t worry much over it. He had more pressing concerns: food and Pete Morgan, in any order.

“Oh, place with saloons, gambling,” he specified, leaning on the gatepost. The boy was ogling outright in his peripheral vision, inching closer as his gaze bounced from Jess’s hat to his boots and back again. A curious kid, plainly.

“You a gambler?” the youngster guessed, expression warring between learned caution and innate excitement at the prospect.

Jess figured that the man would have a decidedly negative response to that sort of profession, so he didn’t bother being too vague about his business. “I’m lookin’ for a fella that’s got a leanin’ that way,” he told the child, smiling at the way the kid gaped at any news like it was the wildest thing he’d ever heard. “Name of Pete Morgan. Maybe he stopped off here.”

“Was he ridin’ the stage?” the man asked, pausing in brushing the horse to approach the rail.

“Mighta been,” Jess conceded.

The man nodded and turned back to the horse. “Then he stopped off here.”

Jess was leaning over the rail in an instant, thinking of all the wagon wheel ruts in the road. He hadn’t seen any sign of an accident, something to cause a stage to pull over unexpectedly at the ranch, but maybe it was a stage stop. “ _When_?”

“Did you say Morgan?” the man clarified, looking down in thought.

“Pete Morgan.” Jess nodded, leaning in.

The old timer pursed his lips, then raised his eyes, pronouncing bluntly, “Never heard of him.”

Anger flashed over Jess’s skin, hot and fast. His mouth ran off before a thought could rise up over the fire. “Now wait a minute. You just said he stopped off here.”

“Everybody that rides the stage stops off here when they change the horses,” the man explained, gesturing to the house with one of his brushes. “You see, this is the relay station for the Frontier Overland Mail.”

Frustrated, Jess pushed off the rail and adjusted his hat against a sudden gust of wind. He heard the boy repeating Morgan’s name to himself and leaned back in hopefully, but the kid’s answer was the same.

“Nope, never met him.” He seemed apologetic, at least. Or maybe he was sorry to hear about another link to the outside world he’d never gotten to see. Jess could see wanderlust practically sparking behind the boy’s honey-brown eyes.

Carefully avoiding memories of how bad he’d wanted to roam at that age, he chewed his lip and reached for his breast pocket. “Well, maybe he got tired of that name. Here’s a picture of him.”

Getting serious, the boy inclined his head towards the yellowed photograph. With less of a wild sparkle in them, his eyes were earnest and intelligent, clearly searching for markers in Morgan’s face. Jess didn’t see any recognition dawn, and with a shake of his head, the child went to hand off the slip of colored paper to his companion. 

The wind was still up, though, and the photo blew out of his fingers, flipping at the mare the man was brushing. Ears back again, she reared up and whinnied, batting her hooves at the unfamiliar assailant. Grabbing his bowler hat to keep it planted, the man cut sideways along the fence, leaving the horse to her efforts. She kept rearing, backing herself towards a water trough and several other nervous horses. 

Jess was over the fence before he thought much more about it. He had her lead in hand in moments, calling the soft sort of reassurances that he reserved solely for horseflesh. She let him pull her down without too much fuss. Seemed like she was more tired of being overlooked than properly scared. Smirking a bit at the notion, Jess hoped that she was just a high-strung filly; if the man and child behind him were neglectful, he could see at least a dozen horses that he’d feel the need to avenge. It would shock him senseless if that were the case, though. The two of them came across as strongly good folk. Especially the boy. He was too young to be anything else, of course.

Using the lead to keep the horse’s nose down, Jess stroked the velvety skin between her nostrils as he brought her back to the rail, murmuring more calming words to keep her sweet. She eyed him thoughtfully, and he took the scrutiny without objection. A horse would judge him on the sorts of things humans didn’t usually find important.

The kid was stood up on the rails when he got the mare back, beaming. The man was there, too, stooping to pull the photograph out from under his boot, and flashed it at the mare in disapproval. “Whatsa matter, girl, don’tcha like Mr. Morgan’s looks?”

“More’n likely, it was me in the picture that spooked her,” Jess opined, rubbing the horse’s forelock without a grudge. He thought of the deputies swarming all over Laramie and the silent, blond giant. “I’ve been getting’ reared up at ever since I hit Wyoming.”

“I thought I was fast with horses,” the kid said admiringly, tapping Jess on the shoulder. “Hey, how about stayin’? I can rustle you up a good hot meal.” Then he glanced over at the man’s incredulous expression and amended sheepishly, “Well, hot, anyway.”

“You’d better get fast with that harness,” the man cut in, “The stage’ll be here any minute, and we gotta be ready.”

“Far as I’m concerned, Jonesy, we _are_ ready,” the boy argued.

Jess kept quiet, filing Jonesy’s name away for later and hoping the kid would make good on that offer of a meal. A stage stop would have plenty of oats around for a hungry bay, too. Jonesy didn’t set the kid straight, so Jess figured his chances were good.

“Ever seen a tamed coyote?” the boy asked suddenly, rounding back on him. “I got one. And a racoon that eats right outta my hand!”

“Now that I’d like to see,” Jess told him, and it wasn’t just to be polite, either. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious.

“Come on, I’ll show you!” he pledged, practically bouncing in place.

Jess looked over at Jonesy for the official go-ahead, and the man nodded, accepting the mare’s lead back. “I ’spect your horse needs tendin’ to,” he opined, eyeing Traveler. “Mister…?”

“Harper. Jess Harper, and this here’s Traveler,” Jess informed him, flashing his bay a quick smile. “If you’ve got any water and feed to spare, we’d sure appreciate it.”

“Sure,” the farmhand acquiesced, waving Jess off. “We can feed him after the stage is through. Go on after Andy, now.”

Smiling, Jess hopped back over the fence. The kid, Andy, had Traveler’s lead, but the horse kept a steady eye on his rider, waiting for Jess to push lightly on his cheek before he went after the little boy. Practically giddy, Andy brought Traveler over to the water trough. Glancing back at Jonesy, the boy put a finger to his lips, eyes sparkling, and then dashed off into the open barn. Jess heard a squeaky pail and grain getting scooped; less than a minute later, Andy returned and placed a bucket of oats where Traveler could reach it.

“Nobody likes waiting on an empty stomach,” he opined. Jess smiled at him--a real smile--and wondered if it looked as rusty as it felt. Ducking his head a bit bashfully, the kid patted Traveler once and then bounded back towards the house, where Jess could hear a strange assortment of chitters and squeaks over the ranch’s chickens and horses. “Come on!”

Opting not to mention his own empty stomach, Jess shared a look with his horse, happily munching in the bucket. Behind him, he could hear Jonesy grousing to a donkey about the child’s quick trust, and while the realist in him was inclined to agree with the older man’s cynicism, it sure felt nice to get a warm welcome for a change. Shrugging at Traveler, he loped off after the little rascal, unsure what he’d find but, for once, looking forward to it anyway.

Minutes later, crouching by as a racoon dismantled a boiled egg and surrounded by a veritable menagerie of docile critters, Jess marveled at the size of his own grin. Andy had already introduced him to the coyote, a harpy eagle, a fox, and a ground owl, and that wasn’t even half of his little horde. The boy hadn’t paused for breath the whole time, rattling off names and stories and facts just about as fast as his tongue could wag around in his head. He paused to chide his racoon, Sam, about table manners, and Jess finally found a space to get a word in.

“Now how’d you teach Sam to do that?” he wondered, watching the varmint rinse bits of egg white in a water dish.

“I read in a book once that there’s no animal that can’t be domesticated,” the boy claimed proudly.

Jess had a lifetime’s worth of wild encounters to negate that statement, but he didn’t feel the need. Hopefully, if Andy found himself with cougar claws planted between his shoulder blades, he’d have the good sense not to offer the beast a hardboiled egg. He gestured to himself instead, countering, “Well, here’s one that can’t.”

The kid beamed, copying the motion. “Here’s another.”

That remained to be seen. Jess had seen plenty of sweet dispositions go sour with age, and while he knew it was usually necessary to grow a meanstreak for a person to stay independent, it made him a bit sad to think about little Andy hardening into a proper Frontier man. It was a long ways off for him yet, anyhow. Plenty of years left with friendly crows and rescued skunks.

With Sam and his other furred and feathered brethren tucked safely away, Andy walked the raven-haired rider into the house at last. A warm draft of deliciously-flavored air escaped the front door when the boy opened it. Stomach growling eagerly, Jess remembered to beat the dust off his hat and boots before he walked in, giving the modest but roomy ranch house a thorough inspection with his eyes while Andy pulled a chair out for him. Too many walls and unseen nooks for his liking, but some reason, Jess felt safe anyhow. Letting the child’s chatter wash over him, he checked every corner twice for trouble before letting himself relax against the chairback.

A plate of something warm appeared before him, as promised. He wolfed it down with gusto as Andy sat beside him and yammered on, describing the animals he’d rehabilitated the summer before. He didn’t expect Jess to contribute much more than nods and sounds of astonishment, evidently, which suited the sometimes-gunslinger just fine. Pausing on the last forkful, he studied his food and decided it must have been stew before tucking it away. Between a baby opossum and a fawn, Andy mentioned pie, and Jess nodded, watching his little hat bob around the doorway to the kitchen.

When he looked back, an orange tabby was cleaning his plate for him. Jeremiah, he was pretty sure Andy had called him. The feline was purring like thunder, Jess’s belly was full and warm, and something about the ranch house put him unusually at ease. After two adrenaline rushes and crashes in one day, he was sleepier than he’d bargained for. His chin began to droop.

He was nearly dozing when a sharp clomp of footsteps snapped him to. On his feet in seconds, Jess blinked his head clear to the sight of Andy’s wide brown eyes, the clatter of a plate on the floor, and the familiar weight of his gun in his hand, hair trigger tensing under his finger. Jess gasped. Ice shot from the crown of his head to his toes and back again, and he twitched the gun into the air faster than he’d drawn during several showdowns. Panic at what he’d almost done clamped like a vise around his heart.

“Sorry Andy. Must’ve dozed off,” he muttered, feeling a bit numb. The kid didn’t seem to realize how close he’d come to a bullet in the head. Barely nervous, the boy scooped the plate back up and walked right over to the man that had nearly killed him.

“Sure glad you woke up before you pulled the trigger, or you might’ve ruined a nice piece of apple pie,” he said with a small smile.

Jess had never loathed himself more. He nervously returned Andy’s smile, at a loss, and dropped his eyes to the flattened slice of pastry on the plate he suddenly held. “Sure didn’t do it any good, did I?”

He sat back down, partly for a reason not to look at Andy’s open, trusting face and partly because his legs didn’t feel much like holding him up any longer, and heard the kid huff a laugh. “Well, you gotta eat a peck a’ dirt before you die.”

It was an unwelcome word to end on, that was certain. Electing to focus on his eternally hungry stomach, Jess thanked him and turned back to the table, barely able to enjoy the sight of the hungry tabby any longer. The pie did look delicious. He grabbed his fork and dug in, nerves helping him scarf down food he only distantly tasted. Andy was at it again, obliviously asking about far-off places and lusting after adventures that he didn’t know how to imagine properly yet. Nodding along, Jess was set to let him rare off until he’d cleaned his plate, but then Andy mentioned a trial, and a whole lot of things started making sense.

“So that’s why he tried to stop me,” Jess mused, a darker sort of smile twisting his lips. Laramie was bracing to take an infamous outlaw’s full ire; no wonder the place was crawling with jumpy deputies and standoffish officials. “He figured Carlin and his boys’d be ridin’ in.”

“Who tried to stop you?” Andy pressed, and Jess showed him the bullet holes in his jacket before he’d thought better of it. Andy looked more worried than he had with Jess’s gun under his nose. “Came kinda close, didn’t he?”

Smirking fully, Jess let a little of the outlaw in him shine through a minute, smug the way only a man who outrode death could be. “Close don’t count.”

Andy mulled that over for as long as he could stand being quiet, which was hardly more than a few moments. The boy got thoughtful, and it telegraphed through his whole body when he decided to change topics. Wondering what came next, Jess took the chance to eat a few more bites of pie and watched the kid lean forward on his crossed arms.

“Jess, how old were you when you first went out on your own?”

Subtle, the boy wasn’t. Jess gave his answer its due, though, scraping back over his dusty, trail-weathered memory for the truth. Turned out it was simpler than he expected, though putting it into words set him back on his heels a bit. “Can’t hardly remember when I wasn’t on my own.” Disquieted, he nodded down at the cat, now under the table, and pushed through it. “Like Jeremiah here, and Sam. Only I didn’t find a soft touch like you.” He smiled tightly down at his pie, seeing a long way past the dining table in that little ranch house and the Wyoming hills outside. “Maybe I didn’t want one.”

Andy was fidgeting with a ring on his finger, antsy in his chair. “I thought a lot about lightin’ out,” he revealed, and Jess kept his face neutral to let the boy think it was a surprise. Some of the most obvious things could still feel scary to say aloud. He reckoned the kid could use a pair of outside ears to hear him out. “But I wanna be with someone. A friend.”

Jess realized the corner he was getting backed into a touch too late, mind starting to race through the possible ways he could head Andy off at the pass without any hard feelings. Oh, sure, he could play at being a respectable traveler, could surprise himself once in a while with glee over a strange boy’s little zoo, but at the end of the day, he wasn’t the sort of person a kid like that should ride with. Not under any circumstances.

Sure enough. “You…you like it better alone?”

He didn’t.

“…Just worked out that way.” If he were smart, he’d have left it at that a long time before. Maybe then he wouldn’t keep ending up with backstabbing partners like Pete Morgan.

It was like Andy heard him thinking. “This fella you’re looking for, Pete Morgan,” he ventured. “You gonna team up with him?”

Ha. Swallowing through disgust, Jess shook his head. “You got a skunk in that menagerie out there? I’d rather team up with her.”

“I thought he was your friend!” Andy exclaimed, and Jess smirked bitterly, correcting the kid with the shortest, gentlest version of what Pete had done to him. Gambling, greed, theft. Standard fare amongst the seedier denizens of the Frontier. More than enough to keep a sheltered boy agog. Andy didn’t stay starstruck quite as long as he’d expected, though, bouncing right back to his angle. “Well, suppose you had a _real_ friend. Someone who liked you a lot, would do anything for you.”

Jonesy’s grousing remarks from earlier suddenly seemed pretty well founded. Alarmed by the child’s immediate and wholesale commitment to him, Jess looked up. He’d just drew a gun on the boy, for chrissakes, and there Andy was, practically vowing allegiance to him.

His look quelled the kid somewhat, at least, and Andy went back to twisting his little hands together. “Well, what I mean is,” he pushed nervously, “Don’t you get lonely sometimes?”

He could not encourage the kid to hop into the saddle and light out. Sure, maybe he was ready for it, maybe he needed it, but Jess Harper wasn’t the man to tell him so. Jess schooled his expression and tone, stoic. “You get used to it.”

And for a second, it looked like he’d done enough. Andy didn’t have the heart to ask to ride out with him, apparently, and left for the kitchen. At least, he would have, if he hadn’t suddenly gotten his gumption back and spun on his heel. “How ’bout teaming up with me?” he burst out. “Take me with you, will ya, Jess?”

Again, his energy was hard to resist, and Jess hated to disappoint him. “I’ll come back someday and talk it over with ya,” he offered, flummoxed that he actually meant it. Hoped for it, anyway. “When that featherdown on your cheeks gets long enough to hold the dust. How ’bout that?”

Of course, it wasn’t enough for the boy, but the more Andy tried to convince him, the surer Jess was that riding alongside a part-time outlaw, full-time troublemaker like him would ruin the child. He just couldn’t have that.

“Everybody’s on the move but me!” the kid complained with a stomp.

Well aware of the sturdy walls all around, the trappings of comfort and memory littered across every surface, and the promise of food in the kitchen and a fire in the hearth, Jess smiled reservedly. He could practically hear the siren’s call of wide horizons echoing around between the child’s ears. Andy would never know how much he had to lose until he walked off without it, but that was the same for any person, Jess suspected. It was everyone’s cross to bear, abandoning a home, the settings they’d known all their lives. Jess hadn’t had much say when, how, or why it had happened to him, but Andy did, yet. No telling if that would change, but Jess wasn’t going to start the upheaval if he could help it.

He sidestepped the boy’s plea with as much grace as he could muster, which was scarcely more than some smart remarks and humor, but it got the job done. Andy went off again, not hating him just yet. Jess called it a win. Listening to Andy clatter around in the kitchen after more food for his houseguest’s bottomless stomach, the young rider ran his hand through his dark hair and breathed out slow. He wasn’t used to accounting for someone’s feelings before he out and said things. It was grueling.

“So, Jess, you won a hundred dollars in a poker game?” Andy asked on his way back into the room, cheese in hand.

Smiling, Jess nodded and took the food. “Time or two, yeah.”

“Slim won’t let me play poker, not for more’n beans,” the boy grumbled, sitting.

“That’s your brother?” Jess ascertained. Andy nodded, and Jess nodded back. “Smart man. No use playing poker if you don’t know how to win.”

“I know how to play,” his host protested, lower lip jutting out.

Jess smiled at his naivete. “Don’t mean you know how to win. Didja think gambling got its reputation from people sticking to the rules? Toss money on a table, and people cheat it right into their pockets. A fella don’t win if he don’t know how to spot it happening.”

Andy blinked and straightened. “Can you teach me how to catch a cheat, Jess?”

“Sure,” Jess agreed easily.

Poker wasn’t the sort of thing most parents would want their kid playing, but there wasn’t sign of any mother, and Jess’d heard him speak of his father’s death as he rode up. Another orphan, looked like. As soon as he thought it, the drifter wished he hadn’t. It was hard enough to tell Andy no as it was. Still, he reasoned with himself, the boy was spoiling to run off into a world he was woefully unprepared to survive. Jess would sooner leave him hogtied in his living room than let the kid follow his own exploits on the range, but maybe he could impart tricks for Andy to share with whatever riding partner he did end up with.

Amidst his musings, Andy had already dashed to and from the mantle, a battered deck of playing cards in his grasp. He slapped them down on the table between the two of them and sat tall. “All right, deal me in!”

“You even know what you’re playin’, compadre?” Jess prodded him, smiling. He could hear Jonesy clumping over from the corral. The man moved well enough, but there was a hitch in his gait. Probably had to do with the odd way he held his back.

Blushing, the kid scrambled a bit and then rapped his knuckles on the table firmly. “Dealer’s choice!”

With a laugh, Jess started to shuffle. Jonesy was easy to track as he mounted the porch and peered through the window behind them. Jess saw his shadow fall across the table, head enlarged by the bowler hat. Jonesy scoffed at the sight of his boy and a stranger at the table, playing cards. Well, if he wasn’t gonna bother to come in, Jess wasn’t gonna worry about his opinion on the matter. He started to deal, and Jonesy left them to it after a moment, scuffing back towards the horses. The stage was probably due soon, and the man’s funny hat wasn’t gonna do Andy’s share of the work without two hands to help it.

They played a few rounds to get warmed up. Jess wanted to make sure Andy understood the basic rules before he started teaching him anything fancier. It gave him the chance to sow in a few rigged hands for the kid to suss out. As he did, he heard a lone rider come up fast, out by the corral. The windows were closed, but he could just make out a man’s timbre joining Jonesy’s as the newcomer greeted the ranch hand and went about unsaddling his horse. After a minute, the new voice didn’t sound too pleased, but Jess didn’t mind enough to stop talking to Andy. Whoever it was knew Jonesy, so he’d probably have something to say about the kid playing poker. Jess wasn’t too worried about upsetting some righteous rancher. He was teaching Andy how to take care of himself; they oughta thank him. Maybe he’d get lucky, and they wouldn’t even come into the house. He nearly laughed aloud at himself, but that wouldn’t give Andy the right idea about a poker face.

Andy finally cottoned on about the fifth time Jess dealt them both four of a kind, favoring himself in the matchup. Grinning, the gunman reclaimed the deck and finally got to showing the boy how to deal off the bottom of the deck. He heard the kitchen door open, and long, quiet strides led Jonesy’s stilted steps into the house. The wind wove its way through the open door and throughout the house, picking up scents of horse, sun, and hard work as it passed by the men in the kitchen. Then the door closed, the men waiting silently for some reason.

Lurking around a corner wasn’t very neighborly. Irked, Jess wasn’t too careful about how he said what he said to the kid; letting them draw their own erroneous conclusions. Whoever it was would step out right quick if they thought he was encouraging the child to cheat at cards. “You wanna win at poker, Andy, you’d better learn how it’s done.”

The boy clearly hadn’t heard anybody come in. Brown eyes wide and concentrating, he murmured, “I was lookin’ all the time. How’d you do it, Jess?”

The fellas in the kitchen were mighty still, eavesdropping. Jess smiled like a cat baiting a canary and restacked the deck. “I’ll show you.”

Quick as you like, the new man was on the move, chucking his hat angrily into a chair as he rounded the corner. Even quicker, Jess’s stomach dropped. Just his luck. It was the big blond giant from earlier.


	4. Chapter 4

Andy leapt up, beaming, as the scowling giant came to loom over the table, Jonesy grim at his shoulder. Spinning to gesture to the stranger sitting at his table, the kid looked proud. It didn’t feel right, having someone look that way about him. Jess shifted and willed his hands to stay out and visible on the table. The blond’s blue eyes were cold and furious, locked on Jess’s as Andy happily announced, “Slim, meet Jess Harper.”

“I’ve already had the pleasure,” the man, apparently Andy’s older brother, ground out. He looked about as pleased as Jess felt about that.

Andy frowned, turning to Jess. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How did I know you were brothers?” Jess pointed out. He smiled up at the big man; it was more a sneer. “No family resemblance at all.”

“Don’t let us interrupt,” Slim spoke up. It was pretty easy for someone that tall to look down his nose at people; must’ve gotten stuck that way, Jess decided. It looked like Slim had him placed lower than a scorpion waiting in a boot. “Go ahead. Show him how you can deal ’em off the bottom.”

Andy bristled, to Jess’s surprise. “We’re just fooling around. We’re not playing for money.”

“See, the way I figure, if you ever are gonna play for money, you’d better learn all the tricks so you can spot ’em,” Jess explained, more for Andy’s benefit than the glowering cowboy looming over them. He kept his face and tone right cordial, too. Wouldn’t do the kid any good to prove his brother right about his choice of friends.

“Yeah, either that or don’t tangle with strangers,” Jonesy grumbled. Hadn’t had the guts to walk in and call Jess out on his own, but he sure was happy to jump on the bandwagon once Slim was laying into the stranger. Jess privately wondered if the old man’s back was afflicted with a long, yellow streak.

Hiding it all behind a rueful smile, the dark-haired drifter looked down at the table. “I’d like to have a nickel for every man that’s been hornswoggled in a friendly game.”

Jonesy looked away. “Could be.”

Slim didn’t back down so easy. Turning his hard gaze on his brother, he commanded, “Andy, go out in the barn and finish that harness.”

Turned out Andy had some iron in his spine, too, because he stared his brother down, reminding him coolly, “I’ve got company, Slim.”

“Andy—” The giant reached for his younger brother’s collar, and Jess tensed, thoughts making way for a hot, clear state of mind that usually spelled disaster for folks he had in his sights. Lucky for Slim, Jonesy’s hand came down on his arm before Jess’s could form a fist.

Over the wind rattling the windows, the older man dissembled, “The stage’ll be here in ten minutes. Let’s go fix up.”

Pursing his lips, Slim stepped past his brother, giving Jess a cold side eye as he walked towards the bedroom. Jess glared hotly back, but only for a second, snapping his amicable expression back into place before Andy or Jonesy could notice. Andy turned back to him and sat back down, starting to apologize for his brother. Jess only half listened, saving the rest of his attention for the conversation starting up between the two men in the bunkroom. The wind was still up, pleading gustily to be let into the house, but it couldn’t quite obscure the words.

_“Yes sir, that boy is a rare judge of character.”_

_“Where’d you meet that fella, Slim?”_

_“Up on the south range. Actin’ kinda ornery.”_

_“And how’d you act? Kinda cordial-like?”_

Jess smirked. Curmudgeon though he was, Jonesy was growing on him. He supposed it made sense for an old man with a bad back to keep his own counsel; wasn’t like calling Jess out and starting a fight would do him any good. Still listening intently to the other room, Jess kept the smile and shook his head at Andy, assuring the boy that there weren’t any hard feelings—none the kid needed to worry about, anyhow—and managing to soothe him. Wasn’t more than a few moments before the boy was fidgeting again. He bounded out of his chair again, doing a very poor job of keeping a casual expression as he strode around the room, wondering aloud where he’d left his canteen.

 _“Andy cottons up to every no-good saddle tramp that comes along,”_ Slim groused beyond the door.

 _“He’s just a kid. So are you,”_ Jonesy reminded him.

Jess was glad the kid couldn’t hear as well as he could; seemed like his older brother rode him too hard too often. If Slim was young enough, and the parents’ deaths were fresh enough, then Jess’d bet good money that neither brother was used to the idea of the eldest being in charge. Methodically shuffling the cards in his hands, the young gunman kept an eye on Andy as the boy roamed around, trying to figure what sort of head-of-household Slim had turned out to be. He’d seen plenty of kids grow up too fast. Sometimes it did unfortunate things to their character. He was man enough to admit the hell he’d put his big sister through after their young lives fell apart. What sort of family did Andy get stuck with?

_“You know what I’d do?”_

_“No, what?”_

_“I’d take him to Laramie. He needs a little excitement once in a while.”_

_“Oh, fine. Maybe we can fix it so he has a showdown with Bud Carlin, huh?”_ Slim agreed sarcastically. Wasn’t the humor Jess had him figured for; seemed like a pratfalls and wordplay kind of man. Quick wit took a quick mind--or at least a quick mouth, in Jess' case--seemed he really had sold Slim short in that department.

_“Be all right if you keep him inside.”_

_“Inside of what? There’s nothing there but saloons, dance halls, and a hotel with wide-open gambling.”_

So Jess’ hunch was right. Laramie was just the sort of up-and-coming backwater Pete Morgan would hole up in. He had all new reasons to begrudge those trigger-happy deputies for running him out of town. Morgan had to be in there, at least for a spell. He could feel it in his bones. Somehow, Jess had to get back into Laramie, dig around some. If that rat had flashed his tail around town, somebody would remember the displeasure of meeting him.

He’d lost track of Andy for a moment; the boy gave up on searching the common rooms and strode into the bunkroom, hands in his pockets and face ingenuous. He couldn’t have been more suspicious if he whistled. Jess shook his head, hands smoothly cutting the deck and flipping through the cards without any thought about it. The little family he was spectating sure leant itself to drama.

With the door open, even a one-eared man could hear people speaking in the next room. Andy didn’t get far in as he asked, “Either of you seen my canteen? I thought it was here, but—”

“I cleaned it out last night when I was workin’ on the guns,” Slim shared, tone dropping to a clear rebuke. “It sure needed it, too. It’s out in the barn.”

The big rancher wound up taking his ranch hand’s advice, though, offering to take his kid brother into Laramie. His voice warmed up, and he sounded more like a brother. A patronizing brother, sure, but the ice he’d directed at Jess was gone. He was offering Andy all the boy seemed to want—an adventure. For a second, Jess was sure that’d be the end of it. But Andy surprised them all and refused, slamming out of the room, and Jess had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he knew why.

Canteens were for travelling. He heard Slim coming to the same conclusion in the other room.

Andy didn’t want to travel alone, but he clearly intended to get out of there, one way or another. Jess had seen him check carefully on a satchel while he was searching the room for the canteen, counting under his breath before he hid the bag away again under the couch. Right in front of a near-perfect stranger, too. The boy was more trusting than a babe in arms. He wasn’t giving up on riding out of there, neither. Not while Jess was there, giving him too good of an excuse.

Knowing he’d probably have to stop saving the kid’s feelings if he really wanted to make the facts plain, the dark-haired rider kept his eyes on the cards to forestall the chat a bit longer. It wouldn’t go well, and it’d been a long time since he hated the idea of bruising somebody’s feelings. Uncharacteristically, he started to plan what he might say before he said it.

The cards split and rejoined like water in his callused fingers, and he listened to Andy drift closer, fascinated. Maybe he could hypnotize the kid outta asking to go with him, he thought amusedly. Farther behind them, he heard the bunkroom door open; he’d been too preoccupied to track any further words exchanged by the two men in there. Slim was probably still stewing—but no, there he was at Jess’s side, shoving him and snatching his gun away.

At first, Jess was flabbergasted. That damn fool had _taken his gun_.

 _Again_.

He was so stunned that he didn’t lash out right away, erupting to his feet and rounding on the obnoxiously silent cowboy. He could scarcely believe how quiet Slim was when he wanted to be. The man had to be charmed, part of him noted, fast getting drowned out by hot anger and a torrent of oaths that he just barely kept in check. He was hopping mad; any other place, any other company, he’d already be drawing blood. Andy was right at his elbow, though, wide eyed and watching. Jess let his fists and glare do the talking, eyes so hot they could’ve melted iron.

“Slim!” Andy protested, affronted.

“I’ll keep the gun this time,” the blond told Jess, eyes cold and haughty. Jess wanted to bust his nose back between those self-righteous blue eyes. They flicked down to the boy for just a moment before boring back into Jess’s glower. “Your company’s leaving, Andy. And you’re stayin’.”

That set Jess off his stride a bit. Pushing the near-murderous rage back, he looked over his shoulder at Andy. The kid clearly had a lot of ideas that he never quite followed through on; Jess needed to know how harebrained his plan really was before he aired any opinions on it to his brother. “Is that why you went in there? To tell him you were going with me?”

“No!” Andy promised, and Jess decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. The boy wasn’t spoiling for a fight; he didn’t intend to set Slim after Jess, at least, even if his ambitions to run did have that consequence.

“He put two and two together, added eight dollars and a solid gold watch, and that’s the answer he come up with,” Jonesy told them, nodding his head at Slim’s stony face.

That cleared up what was in Andy’s secret bag. Slim’s shoulders drew back a bit; his flinty eyes were certain. He’d guessed Andy’s intentions easily enough, and he was convinced Jess was to blame for them. Jess hated that sort of holier-than-thou attitude. People like Slim always figured themselves better than him. No-good saddle tramp, that’s all he was. Normally, Jess didn’t mind letting them keep thinking that way, if it meant getting to knock some heads together. But for Andy’s sake, he toed over towards the high road.

“And he never comes up with a wrong answer, does he?” the young gunman challenged, right hand flexing over his empty holster. He’d try not to beat Slim bloody. One peaceable resolution had to be doable in any man’s life. He was long overdue for his.

Slim didn’t take the bait, staying cold. “Not this time, I didn’t.”

“I say ya did,” Jess retorted, knowing it wouldn’t do much good. He was chucking rocks at a man on a mighty high horse.

“So do I,” Andy chimed in, drawing his brother’s scornful attention.

“You’re learnin’ all sorts of things, aren’t ya?” Slim reprimanded him, disapproval radiating off every inch of his tall frame. “How to deal off the bottom. Now, how to lie with a straight face!”

“All right, I am going,” Andy confessed hotly. In the back of his mind, Jess sighed. The youngster just couldn’t help but complicate things. “With Jess if I can talk him into it,” he added hopefully, catching the drifter’s eye, “Or alone if I have to. And you can’t stop me!”

Jonesy tried to rein the boy in, but Andy wasn’t having it, and his brother didn’t give the family peacemaker much chance to diffuse the situation. “I thought you had better sense, Andy,” he chided, sparing Jess a glance that made it clear he didn’t think the brunet was worth the mud on his boots. “How long you think it’d be before he ran out on ya?” He curled his lip at Jess. “With your money. And your watch.”

Jess had beaten men bloody for less—much less—than an insult like that, and while he liked to think he’d changed for the better since then, it was killing him to stand there and take it. Practically vibrating with the need to lay Slim out on the rug, he growled, “Oh, you know somethin’, Andy? He’s talkin’ me into taking you along.”

“You get outta here,” Slim snarled back, jerking his head towards the door like he would at a mangy dog. “Go on, git!”

Right then, Jess couldn’t see any difference between that bullheaded cowboy and every other meanspirited, yellow-livered, black-hearted bully he’d ever dealt with, and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving Andy with the type who gouged that deep of scars. His blood rushed in his ears, muting the world around him in a way that was strangely exciting every time. “Why, so you can start beating up on him?”

That did it. The ice cracked, and a raging river burst through in Slim’s eyes. Long arms flashed out, quicker than the wind, and a hand closed roughly on the scruff of Jess’s neck, yanking him around towards the wall. Jonesy caught Jess’s gun when Slim passed it to him and backed away, smart enough not to interfere. Letting himself bounce off of the boards, Jess let go of all the thoughts cluttering his head and fell into the hot sort of clarity that guided him through fights. His fists were up already, his feet shifting for balance, and he coiled his muscles for the first of many blows Slim had coming. The blond was fast, he was big, and he was gonna fall hard.

Instead of Jess’s first punch, though, the door burst open. Jess looked over first, more alarmed than any of the others in the room, because he should have heard somebody coming up to it. A man in a smart vest and black hat stood in the doorway, pistol brought to bear, and they all froze at the sound of his voice. “Stay right where ya are! And get ’em up.”

Cursing his rage-dumbed senses, Jess complied with the rest of them. Jonesy, back to the door, raised Jess’s gun in both hands over his head. The man wasted no time collecting it. A bit of red started to color the edges of Jess’s vision. There’d been more hands on his beloved weapon that day than in the last five years. He wanted to break every one of the offending fingers.

“Sorry to break up the fight, boys,” the newcomer said unrepentantly, grinning. The kitchen door opened, and heavy steps clomped in with the wind. Jess stretched his ears, hearing at least one other set up steps outside with new horses. Smiling at the man coming around the corner from the kitchen—a dirty, mean-looking thug with a rifle—the first stranger crowed, “I’m Bud Carlin!”

Of course he was, part of Jess sighed. His luck was holding.

The civilized folk gave the outlaw more of the reaction he was looking for. Slim and Jonesy stiffened; Andy’s jaw dropped. Smiling at the biggest man in the room, Carlin demonstrated some of the fancy airs that had earned him his reputation as a gentlemanly murderer. “I don’t like to trouble ya, but me and my friends are hungry. What’s for dinner?”


	5. Chapter 5

Five minutes later, both of the outlaws had a plate in hand. Jess stood with his back to the fireplace, lined up between Jonesy and Andy. Slim was on the end closest to the table, glaring blatantly at the henchman with the rifle. Their captors had collected the blond’s pistol from the bedroom; it sat next to Jess’s on the table, ridged antler handle contrasting sharply with Jess’s mother-of-pearl grips. Jess only let himself look out of the corner of his eye, never turning his head. Slim didn’t share his appreciation for subtlety. He was staring, clearly planning, and Jess hoped he didn’t get too harsh a reprimand when Carlin or his crew noticed.

Any desire to bloody up the cowboy was at the back of his mind right then; a murderous outlaw gang was far worse than a surly rancher. True, if Jess wanted to get out of there in one piece—and he surely did—he could probably do it alone. Jess was the only man present with a gun belt on, and he’d been close to blows with the property owner. Maybe he could trick Carlin into giving him a longer lead. He’d done it before, with other bad men. 

But he hadn’t been worried about a scared kid while he did it. He doubted he could convince Carlin that short, young, bug-eyed Andy was a worthy addition to his outfit. That left fighting their way out, and there was only one other able-bodied fighter in their motley team. He and Slim were suddenly allies, whether Jess liked it or not. He hoped the burly blond would come to the same conclusion on his own.

Carlin was at the window, watching the road into the ranch. He turned, asking Jonesy, “Once the stage comes into sight, how long does it take to get here?”

Jonesy demurred, drawing out his answer, dancing the outlaw through a few hoops to slow him down. Carlin didn’t appreciate the old timer’s wiles. “Aw, shut up.” He moved on to the next man in line, Jess, and demanded, “How long, on the average?”

“I wouldn’t know.” It was the truth, but it came across like he was playing the same game as Jonesy. He might’ve, if he had known the answer. Jess didn’t take to feeling powerless; when somebody had him snared, his first instinct was always to fight the tether.

Perhaps reading that in his expression, Carlin smiled. He had dead eyes. Meeting their bottomless, heartless depths, Jess suppressed a shiver as his skin crawled. He kept it off his face, though, and clearly thinking he had a rebel on his hands, Carlin looked to his man at the table. Grinning back, the crony abandoned his plate of stew and came over in front of Jess. He was short, round as a barrel. Not the type Jess would worry too much about in a brawl, but stood still at gunpoint, unable to dodge, he could expect a blow from the fella to do some damage.

That was assuming he couldn’t defend himself, which wasn’t so. Standing too close, the ugly brute drew back a meaty fist, practically holding his rifle out for Jess to take as he did. Carlin was covering him from behind, but the gang member’s body was between them, blocking Jess enough to give him time. Eyes dropping to the gun, the drifter tensed, ready to snatch it and roll away when the hit landed.

“Two!” Andy blurted, unaware of his plans. The outlaw froze, rifle retracting towards his chest. Jess dourly watched his chance fade as Carlin redirected his attention to the boy. It was probably better that he hadn’t gotten the chance to start something, he reflected. He was sure he could bring the rifle to bear on Carlin, and any shot the outlaw had at him would end up in his henchman’s back. But the gang leader was savvy; he might’ve aimed for Jonesy, Andy, or Slim instead of Jess, and then they’d be at an even tenser impasse. Swallowing, the kid continued, “Three, maybe four minutes.”

“Well, that means it’s more than twenty minutes late already,” Carlin brooded. His man didn’t seem to see any trouble with that. The head outlaw was smart enough to worry about any changes to the stage’s regular schedule, though. “If it’s late gettin’ to Laramie, they might get jumpy and send out a posse!” he barked, shoving his empty plate into Slim’s chest as he did. “More pie.”

Offended, the tall man worked his jaw. “There isn’t any more.”

Carlin sent the rifleman, Clint, into the kitchen to see, six-shooter keeping them all in place. “You’d just better hope he doesn’t find a piece of pie in there,” he warned Slim. “Any whiskey around here?”

“Might be in my canteen,” Jonesy offered, emphasizing his slow drawl. He clearly wanted Carlin to underestimate him. Jess was starting to think that Jonesy was _always_ a quiet operator. A rare breed, in the Big Open. “For snake bite.”

“Where is it?” Carlin asked, roaming back down the line of his prisoners. Jess ached to yank the gun out of his grip as he passed by, but the other gunman was only in the next room, and Andy, small as he was, was still too big a target for that sort of risk. The young rider was starting to feel glad that his usual habits kept him away from kids. He’d turned out to be far more of a soft touch than he liked.

“Saddlebag in the barn,” Jonesy told him, stepping forward. “Want me to go get it?”

Carlin laughed, pushing the old man back into line. “Uh uh. There might be a horse in the barn, too, Paul Revere. Tell me somethin’, Paul, how—” He stopped himself, strode over to Andy, and bent down over his pistol to make eye contact. “How long does the stage stay here?”

“Just long enough to switch the horses.” The boy met him stare for stare. Jess couldn’t see a tremble in him. He was a brave kid.

“How long is that?” Below Carlin’s voice, Jess heard the man in the kitchen, Clint, open the door and step out, calling around to the other man outside. They spoke quietly for a minute, then the door closed. The outlaw kept rattling around through the room a bit, still hoping for dessert.

“Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe.” The child was quiet, but he wasn’t cowed. Jess was far more impressed with Andy than his brother, who was telegraphing his intentions a mile in every direction with the way he kept staring over at their guns.

Carlin finally saw Slim looking. Addressing Andy still, he observed, “That tall boy’s not too smart, is he?” Standing up, he moved over to block the weapons on the table and entreated Slim mockingly, “Will you do me a favor and not get any more bright ideas? I need all the bullets I got!”

Clint reentered, pie-less, and shared his news. “No more pie, Bud. Matt’s out in back, says one of the horses is about to throw a shoe. He wants to know, can he come in and eat, or should he fix it first?”

Unexpectedly magnanimous, Carlin offered to do it himself. “I wanna have a look around, anyway.”

He came back over to Jess and the others, eyes searching their faces. Jonesy had about as good a poker face as Jess, but the two brothers were easy reading. It should have made them the gang leader’s main subjects, but since Carlin’s arrival, Jess had noticed the outlaw shooting him longer and longer glances whenever he surveyed the prisoners. The gunslinger’s rough edges were coming across. He wasn’t a good fit for the others, and Carlin had picked up on it. He could tell the man was trying to figure out how much of a threat he presented. He’d have to take care not to separate too far from his herd; wolves picked off the loners first. 

Or, better yet, he could go it alone and draw Carlin off the others.

“Who’s good at shoeing a horse?” Carlin called out. Slim and Jonesy piped up immediately, Jonesy even going so far as stepping out of line again. Carlin held up a hand, stopping him. “Uh uh. You’re too anxious.” His eyes swept back to Jess; for a second, the dark-haired drifter’s heart leapt. Alone in the barn, he’d have a real chance at overpowering and disarming the other man. And the other three would be safer with Carlin’s malice directed elsewhere. The dapper outlaw knew that, too. He smiled darkly and pointed at both Jess _and_ Andy. “You two.”

Exchanging a look with the boy, Jess clenched his fists and headed for the door. Carlin was keeping his most valuable pawn in play. Small wonder his reign of terror had lasted so long. The man was too clever for anybody’s good.

Walking to the barn, head bent into the raging wind, gave Jess his own turn to try thinking. Carlin was farther west than Jess had ever heard of him, probably due to special circumstances. The smartest outlaws stayed east, away from the scariest breed of lawmen. The Treaty ruled over all of the Big Open, using troops from both nations on either side of the Frontier, but its mixed bag of enforcers tended to reflect how close a person was to either country. Eastern outlaws knew the ropes when it came to outrunning and outgunning American troops, but First Nation rangers were almost entirely unknown and unpredictable. They had closer ties to the land, too, and that meant even bigger forces might come out on their side if the stakes were high enough. 

Worse yet, there was always the off chance that a roaming Treaty marshal would turn up, no matter where in the Frontier you were. Nobody tangled with them and lived to tell it, but there were only ever four at a time, so they were easier for middling outlaws to elude. Way Carlin was going, he was going to catch their notice right quick. Any lawbreaker knew, the farther west you went, the more likely you were to draw a western or Treaty official’s attention, and the sooner you could expect the consequences. Carlin was stretching his neck out in a big way, coming to Laramie. That made him even more dangerous than usual. With Andy close at hand, Jess would have to be extra careful.

Traveler was still at the trough: head up, ears forward, and eyes questioning. Jess gave his loyal steed a nod as they passed by into the barn, glad that his horse, at least, had the good sense not to try any heroics. One less ally to worry about. Hauling the barn door closed against the wind, he turned and walked deliberately after Carlin and Andy, letting his eyes adjust to the relative gloom. He didn’t know any of the horses at the ranch, but there was only one kitted out in the barn, so he took it to be the gang’s. It’d been tied up by a bench full of tools.

Moving slowly, he scanned every inch of the barn as he went over to it, noting the gun rack tucked against one of the back walls, the heavy bags of feed that might provide cover, the shadows obscuring the hayloft. If only Andy weren’t there, he’d have a real chance at getting loose. The barn smelled like hay, livestock, and gun oil. The wind rattled against its siding, trickling through chinks and holes all over the place and rustling any number of blankets and hay. It made Jess’s ears tickle with oversensitivity, maddeningly distracting. Chewing his lip, he laid a hand on Andy’s shoulder to keep him close, approaching the horse.

There were plenty of sharp objects on the table of tools, but that was an obvious source of trouble. Carlin would be waiting for him to try that. Proving him right, the outlaw lounged watchfully against a column where he could clearly see the implements. Jess looked over, and the older man cocked his gun, pointed it unerringly at Andy, and met Jess’s eyes with smug satisfaction. He sure had Jess’s number. The brunet’s fists clenched. If he hadn’t taken so quickly to the kid, Carlin would have never picked Andy out to use against him, and the boy would probably be back in the house with his fool brother. Scowling at his own softness, Jess patted the kid on the shoulder and stepped away from him. A glitter of laughter passed through Carlin’s gaze; he inclined his head towards the horse.

Andy went and took the leads for the stallion, toying with them nervously. Jess gave him a small smile for reassurance and went over to the chestnut, pausing to give the animal a scratch or two in greeting. Wasn’t a horse’s fault who his rider was; Jess never held a man’s actions against animals. He’d always been particularly forgiving of horses and dogs. Glancing down, he could see metal glinting off the side of one of the hooves, clearly ill-fitted, and brought the leg up between his knees to work. Like any lone rider, he’d learned enough about shoeing to get the job done. He worked quickly, disliking how the posture left him off balance and put his back to a hostile shooter.

Before long, Carlin was restless, drifting over to the wall of tack. “Which is the saddlebag with the canteen in it?”

“The middle one, I think,” Andy guessed.

Jess hoped there really was whiskey. Carlin didn’t have much patience to spare for tricks. The gang leader started scuffling around in the gear, and Jess heard air bend around leather. Andy flicked him with the reins he held. When Jess glanced back, the kid craned his head very obviously towards the gun rack. The family resemblance was getting stronger the longer Jess knew him and his brother. Not willing to pull something with a child that close to the crossfire, Jess shook his head firmly. He went back to work. Then he heard Andy drop the reins and start easing towards the guns, all guts and no brains.

“Andy!” Twisting, the raven-haired man heard and ignored the way Carlin jerked around at the sharpness in his tone, leveling a warning into Andy’s brown eyes. He hated to call attention to the boy, but he had to stop the kid before he got himself hurt. To justify speaking up, he pointed to the table. “Hand me that rasp.”

Angry and surprised, Andy came over and did as he asked. Carlin went back to rooting through the saddlebags, finally locating a canteen. He spat out the water he drank from it, shaking his head as he came back over to them. “Relay station every ten or twelve miles, and I gotta pick one run by kids who don’t drink whiskey,” he groused. Jess gave the horse back its leg and turned to it, righting the saddle and rubbing its neck. It soothed him as much as the horse. “You finished?”

“Yeah.”

Carlin took the reins back from Andy. “Outside.”

As they walked out together, Andy leaned close and hissed, “Who’s side are you on?”

“The safe side,” Jess retorted unapologetically. “You’da got your head blown off.”

As he said it, he heard a distant yell and pounding hooves. Wagon wheels creaked up on top of the ridge, a whip snapped. The stage had arrived. Turning towards the sound, he and Andy watched in dismay as the unknowing driver brought the team down to the valley floor. Carlin stepped out behind them, shoed horse in tow, and beamed. His scheme, whatever it was, was about to kick off in earnest.

“There she comes, boys!” he exclaimed, pointing his gun at Andy. “You stay out here and switch those horses just like you always do.” Andy walked towards the corral to comply, Jess close behind him, but Carlin locked eyes with the drifter and shook his head. “Uh uh. Hold it. Not you.”

“Takes two,” Andy objected.

“You and the driver,” Carlin ordered. “Tell him there ain’t nobody else here.” He raised his six shooter, a standard Colt with dark wooden butt plates, towards Jess’s nose, jerking his head back at the house with a sly smile. “Inside.”

Giving the back of Andy’s head a long look, Jess clenched his fists and turned towards the house, using every bit of his concentration to listen to the man and boy behind his back. Carlin stepped over to Andy. Jess turned to look back under the pretense of twisting his face from the dusty wind. He immediately wished he hadn’t; he nearly about-faced and raced back. The outlaw had his arm around Andy’s neck, gun up near his eye and grin twisting menacingly on his face.

“He your brother, son?” the gang leader queried, tone false and lighthearted.

“N-no. Slim is,” Andy corrected him, tearing his eyes off the six shooter to frown anxiously up at the man’s face.

“Well, don’t you worry about old Slim. He’s gonna be all right,” Carlin assured him, dark eyes cruelly amused. Merrily, he amended, “Unless you tip ’em off that we’re here. In that case, he’ll be dead!”

Spinning Andy off towards the corral, the gunman started to lead his horse into hiding behind the house. He caught Jess glaring at him by the door and grinned even wider. With raised eyebrows, he half turned, pointing the gun at Andy’s back. The stage was getting closer by the second. On that short a timetable, Carlin would start choosing threats to make good on. Jess didn’t need to find out which. Grinding his teeth so hard they creaked, the drifter whipped open the door, paused to let the henchman in there draw a bead on him, and stiffly stepped back inside.

Still at the table, stuffing his gob, Clint grunted hello and waved him back into the lineup between Slim and Jonesy. The blond still stood rigid, poised for a fight at any moment, but Jonesy had adopted an unimpressed slouch, hands stuffed in his pockets. Despite either of their guises, Jess could see a thousand questions and even more concerns cross the men’s faces when he reentered without Andy. They were right to worry, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

“He’s having Andy change the horses,” he reported, stepping between them. Slim glared, clearly holding him at fault for his little brother’s absence, and Jess’s stomach clenched even as his chin came up in automatic indignation. He wasn’t too pleased with himself, either. “The driver’ll help.”

Clint guffawed at the words, drawing bemused frowns from the three men by the fireplace, but he didn’t explain, just kept after his dinner. Jess heard Carlin take his horse around to the back, where the other outlaw, Matt, was waiting. They spoke, but the house and wind hid the words from him, just carried the rise and fall of their voices. He only caught a snatch of words when Carlin raised his voice, unhappy with his man’s grasp of the plan. They were probably talking through where the gang would meet up for a getaway.

 _“Forget about the cutoff!”_ And then, _“Left!”_ Not too helpful, without more clues.

Jess glanced out the window like Slim and Jonesy were doing. From his angle, he couldn’t see the corral or Andy. He chewed his inner lip unhappily. Carlin strode in the kitchen door with his second man, Matt, and waltzed around to the window beside them, peering out and blocking everybody else’s view. He had his gun in hand, empty holster hanging tantalizingly close to Jess’s reach.

Matt took up position behind them, rifle trained on their backs. Jess stole a glance at him, saw a scruffy, lanky saddle tramp with dull eyes and a slack expression, and counted him off as a threat. He’d pull the trigger well enough, but it was anyone’s guess at what. Carlin was clearly working with a skeleton crew. He wondered where the rest of the gang might be.

Outside, Jess heard the stage roar up, driver calling a halt. He and Andy exchanged greetings, barely discernible over the wind, and Andy made excuses for being alone. Carlin seemed satisfied; the longer the exchange went on, the looser his shoulders sat under his vest.

Clint joined him at the window, clearly sighting the stage’s occupant. “Is that him?”

Carlin nodded. “His honor, Judge Thomas J. Wilkins.”

An old man’s rasp joined the other voices outside; he wanted coffee. Andy thought quick, trying to keep Carlin’s target out of the house by telling him there weren’t any foodstuffs available. It almost worked, too, but Carlin saw the incredulity in the judge’s stance and huffed, pushing away from the window. He couldn’t resist gloating as he moved towards the door.

“Couldn’t be better. No other passengers.”

“Now, why wouldn’t more folks be going into Laramie?” Clint pretended to wonder, smirking.

“Maybe there was somethin’ in the paper today that kept ’em away,” Carlin suggested, leaving Jess certain that he’d arranged for just that.

Chewing his lip—one day, he was gonna bite through it—Jess indulged in some deeper thinking than normal, adding up what he knew. Carlin had been in town a while, to lay that sort of groundwork. A prize in one place long enough to do that for, a travelling Treaty judge to waylay…local law must’ve gotten their hands on one of his men. Whether the prisoner was a good hand or not, an outlaw had a reputation to keep. If anybody messed with his crew, Carlin would have to mount a mighty harsh response to keep people afraid of him. He was looking to bust his man out. Jess would bet his boots on it.

The wind howled, threatening to tear the roof off, and Carlin glanced up at it. “Like a bad weather report. A storm comin’ up.”

Caught up in the jest, Clint took a step towards the door, chuckling, “I think I’ll go out and start blowin’ up that storm.”

Quick as a flash, Carlin yanked him back, humor evaporating as he leaned menacingly over his lackey. The henchmen froze stiff, too familiar with his boss’s temper to do anything else. “I got this thing worked out like a timetable,” Carlin snarled. “You do it my way!”

Cowed, Clint wilted away. “Sure, Bud.”

Satisfied, Carlin released him. Adjusting his hat, he ushered Clint out of sight, away from the door, and stepped out. In fine form, the infamous murderer hailed the judge, inviting him inside and unfortunately getting an idea about the stunt Andy had pulled. Jess sighed to himself. Things just kept breaking the outlaw’s way.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jonesy watching him, squinty eyes sharp and suspecting. Clint was making his way back to the table, so the old man asked lowly, “Whatcha hearin’ out there, boy?”

Jess opened his mouth, then closed it, frowning at the ranch hand. Jonesy was slyer than a fox, darn him. Jess’d been too careless. Behind him, he heard Slim turn to watch the exchange. “…Andy tried to keep the judge out,” he muttered at last, turning away to watch the two gunmen in the room. “Didn’t work.”

Jonesy raised an eyebrow, facing front as well. “He’s a smart kid.”

“Won’t do any good, this time.” Jess nodded in agreement, but he was a cynic through and through. “Carlin’s smart, too.”

“Quiet!” Clint snapped, waving a gun barrel at them.

Jess gladly closed his mouth and kept it that way, glowering back at the outlaw until his bleary eyes wavered and dropped back to his plate. He could still feel Jonesy and Slim watching him, knowing and perplexed in that order, and it made his shoulders hunch up, neck crawling. Jonesy had better lay off, if he knew what was good for him. They had more important things to worry about, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

Carlin was at his most charming as he walked the judge up to the door. The old man stepped through, laughing as he took off his hat, and didn’t see the guns pointed at him until he was several strides into the room. Then his laughter died, posture stiffened as his eyes swept over the scene. Three unarmed men lined up in plain sight, two rifleman at the ready. And behind him, a tall, dapper man with a six-shooter slung low, stepping up to meet him when he turned around.

“Allow me to introduce myself, your honor.” Carlin smiled in anticipation. “ _Bud Carlin_.”

“Oh.” The judge drew a breath, gathered himself. “Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard from those friends of yours who know me, but if they led you to believe that I could be intimidated or bribed, they were wrong!”

“They never got a chance to tell me anything about ya,” Carlin complained. “Ya hung ’em!”

Things were not looking good for Judge Wilkins, and everyone knew it. He clung gamely to his dignity, though, refusing to back away from the dead eyes above Carlin’s ever-present smile. “Well, then I believe, in all conscience, they were guilty.” He drew his shoulders back. “And if the same applies to the man coming up for trial in Laramie, he’ll hang, too!”

That didn’t look to bother Carlin the way it ought; he smiled and tapped the judge on his finely-tailored lapels. “That is, if _you’re_ judge at the trial.”

Judge Wilkins drew the same conclusion as Jess; the drifter could see the shift in the old man as he accounted for his oncoming death. Jess had learned to recognize that sort of resolve long before he walked onto his first battlefield. Not every man had it in him. Very few did, actually, without proper inspiration. Judge Wilkins was a rare one. Jess wished he could help the man; hands feeling empty and useless without a gun to draw or a punch to throw, the dark-haired drifter shifted, wishing he could interfere. He felt the same coiled, frustrated energy emanating from Slim and gave the man a sharp glance. They still had two rifles trained on them, and Andy was well out of their protection. The rancher had better keep himself under wraps.

“If I’m not,” Judge Wilkins answered resolutely, “if you kill me, there will be other judges. You can’t kill them all.”

“Killin’ judges is a bit outta my line,” Carlin protested. His eyes dropped to the watch chain on the judges vest, where Jess could see a copper likeness of the treaty emblem hanging. It caught the light, winking with an odd sort of brightness. Like it wanted to remind all of them just how powerful the protections for a Treaty judge were. If Carlin killed someone wearing a medal like that, he’d have more than mere humans to answer to. “Folks just never let up on ya if you do a thing like that.”

There was a beat of confusion as the judge, Jess, and maybe Jonesy wondered what the hell Carlin was getting at. Enjoying their bewilderment, the gang leader tapped the judge on the chest again, fingering a button on his coat. “Take your coat off, Judge. Make yourself comfortable. You’re stayin’ here.”

“I suppose you know the penalty for kidnapping,” the judge said instead, unmoving. Carlin asked again, and again he refused, shouting, “Kidnapping is a capital off—”

“Take off your coat!” Carlin bellowed, hurling the old man across the room. The judge landed in a heap at Jess and Slim’s feet, breathing raggedly; Slim bent quickly to help him up. Jess kept his eyes rooted on Carlin, who prowled closer with a lifeless, dangerous smile affixed to his features. Quietly, he commanded again, “The coat, Judge.”

The judge looked startled and a bit lost, which Jess didn’t much blame him for. Unnerved, he got to his feet, slowly pulling off his navy overcoat. He wasn’t the sort to get rough treatment, especially not on the Frontier. Didn’t change the fact that, even with rights endowed by the highest law on the continent, he was merely mortal. Vengeance for his death might be preternatural, but Judge Wilkins could be killed just as easily as any other man. Jess wondered if that had ever occurred to him before. Looked like it hadn’t.

“Bring it here,” Carlin cooed, crooking his finger at the judge. Unwillingly, the old man approached. He looked smaller without his coattails, or maybe it was his loss of confidence that shrank him down. He offered the navy fabric to the outlaw, but Carlin shook his head, turning around. “Now, let’s see how it looks on me. Help me on with it.”

Like a man who’d drunk a whole bottle of vinegar, the judge grimaced but did it, and Carlin stood admiring the fit of the overcoat a second later. Clint stooped and plucked up the judge’s top hat from where it had fallen, proffering it to him and putting on airs. “Your hat, sir.”

“Thank you.” Switching it with his own, Carlin waved his man off. “Keep an eye out the window, Clint.” He messed with the lay of the fabric over his gun belt and shot a pleased look at Matt, his other man. “Well. Not a bad fit.” He looked himself up and down, pausing, and then pulled out the chair Jess had sat in not half an hour before. “Only one thing wrong. Dirty boots!” Planting his foot on the seat, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it at the judge. “Shine ’em.”

Of all the low things to do. Anger flared across Jess’s skin, and he shot a quick glance over to gauge Slim’s reaction. The rancher had gone cold and still, which hopefully meant that he wasn’t gonna try to defend the judge’s honor. He doubted that, though. Over at the window, Clint laughed meanly, hitching Jess’s fury a bit higher. By that point, Jess would gladly wring the outlaws’ necks, bring them back, and snap their necks again. Wasn’t hard to imagine someone as uptight and duty-bound as Slim taking the lawman’s treatment even more personally.

Judge Wilkins did what he had to do; accepting the rag, he stepped over and bent to scrub some of the dust off Carlin’s leather. Carlin sneered down at the top of his head. “On your _knees_ , Judge. Do it right.” Closing his eyes, Judge Wilkins complied, much to the outlaw’s amusement. “Remind me to give you a good tip, your honor.”

Delighted, his two henchmen laughed, and Jess knew it as soon as Slim’s patience tore. As the lackeys were distracted, the giant lunged forward, tackling Carlin to the floor. Looking to help, Jess darted towards Clint to grab the rifle away, but he had to step around Jonesy to get there. It was long enough for Matt to draw a bead back on him.

“Hey! Not another step, feller,” he ordered, cocking the rifle. Jess slowly stepped back into line.

Shoving him the rest of the way, Clint rushed by towards Slim and Carlin. They rolled near the wall, grappling, and Slim got his hands on Carlin’s neck. Jess waited for the easy snap, but Slim apparently didn’t subscribe to a killer’s instincts. He squeezed instead, waiting for lack of air to knock Carlin out, and forgot to account for the man’s cronies. Stepping up behind the tussle, Clint waited for Slim to roll on top and clobbered him with the stock of his rifle. Out stone cold, the giant went limp. Gasping, Carlin threw him off onto the floor. It took a lot of effort, Jess noted. Maybe the outlaw played so gentlemanly because he wasn’t fit for rough handling.

Hauling himself up, Carlin saw Clint bring the rifle back around, taking aim, and put a hand out to stop him. “No, wait a minute.” Breathing heavily, he turned to his conscious prisoners, eyes daring them to give him more trouble. “How much more time we got, Paul Revere?”

It took Jonesy a moment to tear his eyes off Slim’s recumbent form. He squinted grimly over at the outlaw’s leader, no longer pretending to be old and slow. Just angry.

“Well, go to the window and look!” Carlin demanded.

Glaring all the way, Jonesy complied. “Lead horse is actin’ up a bit. Might take a spell.”

“Good. Let’s have some fun while we wait, Clint,” Carlin told his second in command.

Jess didn’t like the gleam in his eye, not one bit. The infamous murderer was back to his usual smiling self when he should’ve been furious, ordering Slim shot or some other punishment. Jess chewed his lip. When the outlaw locked eyes with him, grinning wider, part of him had been expecting it. For some reason, Carlin had fixated on him. Whatever his fun was supposed to be, Jess could expect it to be at least partly at his expense.

“Get back where you were, Paul,” he called to Jonesy, going to shove Judge Wilkins over in front of the fireplace, as well. “You too, Judge, over there.” He followed the judge’s stuttering footsteps over to stand in front of Jess, smirking into the drifter’s cautious glare as he chided Jonesy, “Y’know, if you really was Paul Revere, the redcoats woulda cleaned up before anybody got there? Snap it up.”

He snapped his fingers for emphasis, right in front of Jess’s nose. Jess didn’t flinch, but he very nearly leaned forward to bite. Hot anger was skittering over his skin in waves, crowding out his thoughts and coloring his vision again. Back at the wall, Slim was stirring, so Clint grabbed his arm and pulled him up, twisting his right arm behind his back before he could blink the daze out of his eyes. Pushing Slim ahead of himself, Clint offered him over to his leader.

“Hit ’im, Bud!”

Carlin turned to look Slim over, but he shrugged off the suggestion. “You know me, Clint.” He leaned into Slim’s face, still a few inches higher than his even though the young rancher was slumping, as the cornflower blue irises finally focused. “I like to _watch_.” He spun back to Jess, sidling up conspiratorially like they were old friends. Beneath his anger, Jess got a very bad feeling. “You were squarin’ off with ole Slim when we got here,” he recalled. Then, like he was offering Jess a favor, he invited him sweetly, “Pick it up where you left off.”

Jess looked at him like he’d grown two heads. Carlin was gonna make _him_ mete out Slim’s punishment? Knowing it wouldn’t do any good, he lied, “We were just horsin’ around.”

Carlin led him forward by the elbow, unconvinced. “Horse around some more.”

Jess stopped within arm’s reach of Slim and looked up at him, gauging the taller man’s state. His pupils were even, and though he drew in a long breath when he caught up to Carlin’s little game, he stayed steady on his feet. Both he and Jess side-eyed Carlin, taken aback by what he was asking.

“Now, I wanna see a good right to the jaw,” Carlin instructed Jess. “All your might.”

Hit an unarmed man hard as he could? With the man stuck waiting for it like a fish on a hook? Jess would never, even if Slim _wasn’t_ his only healthy ally in a room full of enemies. But he wasn’t sure how he could avoid at least a pretend punch. He’d pull it, of course, but it’d take two of them to make it convincing. He looked to Slim again, watching the man look around the room and realize that they were out of options. Matt still stood by, grinning stupidly behind his rifle, and Carlin had his six-shooter. The judge and Jonesy weren’t gonna be able to get the upper hand from their position, and Clint would dislocate Slim’s shoulder before he could get loose of the bulky henchman’s grip. Only Jess stood free, with Carlin watching him like a vulture.

“Well, go ahead.” Once he’d taken stock, Slim didn’t bother delaying. He drew himself up and stood ready. “Hit me.”

He wasn’t even bracing. It rankled a little to see him stand open like that. The rancher was big, but he had to know that a little extra height and bulk on his side wasn’t gonna change how hard Jess could hit. Brushing off his irritation at being underestimated, Jess stepped in, took a breath, and socked the other man in the jaw. Hard enough for the smack of skin, but no harder. Slim did a fair job of rocking back, playing up the impact, but Carlin wasn’t fooled.

“I said, all your might!” he rebuked the drifter. Clint shoved Slim back onto his feet, and Carlin waved him over to the wall. “The window, Clint. I’ll give you one more chance,” he warned Jess, finger wagging at him like he was a disappointing schoolkid. “You got one second.”

Jess felt almost separate from himself, marveling at the bizarreness of the situation from far back in his mind as he reset his feet and tried to decide just how much force to put behind his next swing. Slim didn’t like the waiting, a bit of a glare creeping into his stoic expression. “Well, what’re ya waiting for? Hit me!”

Permission made it easier to hit him again. Or maybe the challenge in his voice eased Jess’s conscience. He punched the big cowboy like he would to warn another man off a fight, letting his arm carry through that time and trusting Slim to gentle the blow from his end. Slim spun away, crashing into a chair against the wall, and Jess took a half a step after him, hand outstretched. He wasn’t used to measuring his strength; he’d hit a bit harder than he’d meant to.

“Well, that was better,” Carlin congratulated him. He turned and walked over to Slim, heaving him up again. “Only one thing. You rolled with the punch. This time, I want you to stand right there and take it.”

Taking a full punch, flatfooted, was stupid no matter how weak your opponent was. Jess could already see a bruise puffing up along Slim’s jawbone. Down at his side, the gunslinger’s knuckles ached and sang, a fierce sort of joy humming along his spine from the familiar hurt. If he hit the cowboy again, he might crack a tooth, break his jaw. If he forgot himself and really let loose, he’d knock him senseless. Slim and Jess locked eyes, and Jess could tell that the big rancher didn’t think it could feel any worse than it already had. Jess knew better, but maybe it was for the best that Slim didn’t entirely know what was coming. Steady on his feet, Slim nodded down at the drifter, not a hint of scorn, malice, or mistrust in his eyes, and Jess hoped he didn’t hit his big, hard head on the way down.

Carlin wasn’t satisfied with the stakes yet, though. He drew his pistol. Aiming at Jonesy’s midriff, he added, “If you don’t, Paul Revere bites the dust.”

Slim’s eyes went wide. So he could feel fear after all, if only on behalf of someone else. Well, if Jonesy’s life was the cost of failure, then any thoughts of holding back were out the window. Jess clenched and unclenched his fingers, shaking his arm loose. Before he went along with Carlin’s ridiculous cruelty, he listened carefully outside again. The wind was good and howling; he could hear the team of horses kicking up a fuss, Andy and the driver speaking hurriedly to each other as they sought to calm them down. Maybe it would keep the kid far away from the madness.

Clint dashed his hopes, turning from the window. “Looks like they’re ready, Bud. The kid’s coming back.”

If Andy walked in on Carlin’s twisted little sideshow, he’d only react poorly. Who knew what the man would do then; Jess couldn’t stand the thought of Andy swapped into one of Carlin’s sick games...or walking in to watch old Jonesy take a bullet.

“You got three seconds,” Carlin told him. Jess licked his lips and squared off, fist clenching. “One.”

“Hit me,” Slim said urgently, clearly thinking along the same lines as he was.

“Harder than last time, or it don’t count!” Carlin added. “Two…”

“Hit me!” Slim shouted.

Already feeling sorry for it, Jess looked down, cast all his misgivings to the farthest reaches of his mind, and called up his anger. Flicking his eyes up for a bone-chilling glare into Carlin’s startled gaze, he wound up and punched Slim harder than he’d hit a man in years. Not hard as he could, but darn near; it was more than enough to put the big blond’s lights out. Unconscious in an instant, Slim toppled towards the floor, landing in an unceremonious heap on the rug.

Jess didn’t see him fall. He lunged at Carlin with his heartbeat loud in his ears, but his glare had set the outlaw on his guard. Drawing just fast enough, the older man leapt back a step, avoiding Jess’s reach. Clint rounded on him, too, rifle at the ready, and Jess forced himself to go still in front of the two guns, eyes spitting fire at the smarmy, smiling outlaw in front of him. Bud Carlin had a lot harder hit coming to him, when Jess got free. And not just one.

“That was just fine,” Carlin praised him, smile smug and eyes empty. He grinned over at Clint and stepped out of the way, leaving the burly gang member room to rear back and hit Jess square in the face. He rocked back from the blow soon enough to stay conscious, but it sent him sprawling nonetheless. Just in case he could get the drop on the dumber man as he got up, he exaggerated the fall, aiming to get closer to Matt. Carlin jeered from the doorway, “What’d you think of that one?” Hand on the doorknob, he turned and pressed his junior lackey, “You got it straight, Matt?”

“Sure, Bud,” the man drawled. “Baxter—”

“Shut up,” Carlin hissed, yanking the door open. “I’m countin’ on you, Matt.”

Clint ran his stolen top hat over, and the outlaw leader stepped out for good, approaching the stagecoach. Outside, Jess heard Andy walk up and stop short when Carlin and Clint came at him. “S-stage is ready to leave.”

“Inside,” Carlin ordered, walking away.

Clint punctuated the remark by cocking his rifle, and Jess got up on his knees, eyes sweeping the room for any new advantages. Matt still had his rifle on him, though, and he’d stepped back out of reach. He waved Jess back into line by the two old men; Jess went silently, grinding his teeth. As he turned around to face the room, Andy opened the door. Ever curious, he paused to look back, and Jess opened his mouth to warn the boy against it.

Too late. A gunshot rang out, horses fussed, and a body hit the dirt out by the stage. The guard, probably. Drivers of Treaty-chartered stage lines had similar protections to Treaty judges. Carlin wouldn’t risk that. Still, a body was a body. Open mouthed in horror, Andy backed into the building and slammed the door shut on the sight of the dead man outside. Jess hoped it wouldn’t make too hard an impression on him.

His brother laid out on the floor distracted him soon enough. Dashing over to kneel by the big cowboy’s side, Andy grabbed his vest and shook, voice taut with fear. “Slim! Slim!”

Matt walked over in front of the table, stuffing both Jess and Slim’s pistols down the front of his belt—Jess bitterly wished they went off in there—and caught the boy’s eye with his rifle. “Get over there with them.” Breathing hard, Andy backed towards the fireplace where Jonesy, the judge, and Jess stood. “Hurry up!”

Matt walked over in front of them, leaning to watch the stage pull away out the window. Behind him, Slim started to stir, and Jess let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Seemed he hadn’t done any permanent damage to the big lout. Andy and Jonesy perked up next to him, noticing Slim’s movements as well. Outside, Jess listened to the stage clattering off towards Laramie, and Matt stepped back towards the center of the room.

Patting his firearm, Matt told them, “This here’s a mighty fine rifle. Just step outside while I got ya in sight, and you’ll find out.”

He stomped off through the kitchen, heading out back to gather the gang’s horses and bring them to the rendezvous site. Jess let him go, glad to be rid of every last one of those stinking outlaws. Before he’d realized it, he’d rushed over to Slim alongside Andy and Jonesy, perching in the nearby chair to get a look at him. There was blood on the blond’s cheek, but after a few blinks, his eyes cleared and stayed open, pupils even.

“Slim, are ya hurt bad?” Andy worried, doing more than his fair share of the work to keep his brother bent upright.

Getting an arm under himself, Slim sat up where he could support his own weight and shook Andy’s knee reassuringly, huffing out a surprised laugh. World was still spinning, Jess discerned smugly. “I’m all right,” the big rancher assured his brother. Looking up at Jess, he smiled, part abashed but mostly grateful. “Thanks for missing my nose.”

Forgetting all about being angry, Jess grinned at him.

While he and Andy helped Slim up to his knees, Jonesy disappeared into the bedroom. Jess heard him rifling around under furniture, probably a bedframe, and then out he came again, a nearly-full whiskey bottle in hand. So he had lied to Carlin. The old timer had some nerve, Jess thought admiringly.

Four horses charged off from the back of the ranch house, and in front of the noise, the judge sat heavily into the chair Carlin had forced him to shine boots on. Wearily, he mourned, “I’m a coward.”

“Acceptin’ what has to be, your honor, ain’t bein’ a coward,” Jess countered from Slim’s shoulder. He’d had to swallow plenty of hard lessons in his time--usually fruit of his own bad decisions--but once in a while, bad things happened that even the guiltiest man couldn't be held at fault for. Jess still usually managed to blame himself, but a Treaty judge deserved a sight more leeway than a no-good drifter did.

“Looks like somebody took a swig a this,” Jonesy accused, holding the bottle out to his two boys.

“Wasn’t me!” Andy chirped. As if any of them would suspect him first.

Slim smiled sheepishly up at his old friend, and Jonesy handed it over with a false scowl. Tapping the blond’s shoulder, he scolded, “From now on, for medicinal purposes only!”

Sitting witness to their little family moment, Jess belatedly realized what a kid Slim really was. When he didn’t have his guard up, he looked years younger than Jess felt. They might’ve been close in actual age—he’d wager Slim was a bit nearer to twenty than his own twenty-five—but even if he wasn’t younger by time, life had certainly been kinder, on average. Losing his parents made him get older in a hurry, sure, but if Andy was old enough to remember their father, then Jess’s hard start had come long before Slim’s. 

Briefly, the dark-haired loner envied the other man’s outlook, but feeling sorry for himself always made him sick to his stomach. He oughta be glad for Slim and Andy; a decent person would be. Jess figured he might as well give some inner benevolence a try.

Slim took a swig of the whiskey and passed it back to Jonesy, grimacing at the burn, and the three of them managed to get the big man onto his feet again. Before his knees had even promised to hold him, Slim’s face filled with righteous determination. “We gotta get to Laramie before they do.”

“You can hardly stand up,” Andy pointed out, watching his brother sway.

Slim ignored him and tapped Jess on the collarbone, right below the circle of leather hidden under his shirts. “Jess, will you ride with me?”

Shocked but instant agreement warred with good sense in Jess’s considerations. Slim was unsteady; eager enough to light out after justice, but he’d been cracked in the head with a rifle stock, punched twice for show, and then knocked out again in too short a time. He had no business getting astride a galloping horse, much less starting a gunfight with wanted men. He’d get himself killed faster than a bison charging a steam engine. “You haven’t got a chance of beatin’ ’em.”

“He’s right,” siding quickly with Jess, Jonesy leaned around Slim’s broad shoulders and leveled a stern look at the battered cowboy. “The horses are out in the pasture—”

“I’m goin’ after ’em, Jonesy,” Slim stated firmly, shooting Jess another questioning look.

The anger hadn’t come back, but there was doubt in his eyes: confusion at Jess’s refusal. After what they’d been through, he probably thought they were a crack team. Thinking back on the day, Jess didn’t value the show of teamwork any less than Slim, but for him, any bonds they’d formed translated into a firm desire to keep the other man alive, not to encourage him to ride towards disaster. He stood firm, and Slim frowned at him, turning for the door.

“I can make it with you, Slim,” Jonesy offered, following after him.

Slim shook his head at the older man. “With that bad back?”

He stepped out, making sure that the outlaws were long gone, with Jonesy and Andy hot on his heels. Glancing over at the judge, who had his head in his hands at the table, Jess drifted after them, grabbing his coat and hat as he listened to the big rancher marshal his troops.

“Get the guns from the barn, Jonesy!”

“Aw, Slim,” the ranch hand objected. “You can’t mean to—”

“And bring ’em out to the pasture,” the young man cut him off. “Andy, you get back in the house.”

Jess came out as Slim sprinted off towards the pasture gate after a horse, balance nearly perfect again. Jess knew it well from experience, but it was still amazing to stand back and see how fast--and hear how quiet--the big man could move. He’d have a horse in hand in no time. Frowning, Jess chewed his lip, eyes going to Traveler.

Matt, the dumb one, had mentioned a place called Baxter, and Carlin had shouted something about going left. He only knew of one place in the area by that name; the ridge he’d gone up on his way out of Laramie. It had been the left fork off the main road. It wasn’t solid proof of where the outlaws were going, but his gut was certain. If he had his way, he’d convince Slim to stay put where it was safe and ride out after Carlin himself. He’d gotten into worse scrapes against tougher odds and walked away from it. Alone, he had a chance of making Carlin pay without putting any tall, law-abiding ranchers in the crossfire.

Of course, the smartest thing to do would be to let Carlin ride off into the sunset and keep all their hides in one piece, but Jess considered himself neither smart nor forgiving. He was in the midst of a manhunt that had dragged him over two thirds of the roughest country on the continent, for chrissakes. One thing was certain about him; he wasn’t the sort to let bad men cross him and get away with it. Slim, on the other hand, had more upright motivations. He was out to save law and order in Laramie, first and foremost, not settle a score. He wouldn’t be put off of it, neither. Jess didn’t have time to waste arguing with him.

Maybe he could settle things by getting to Carlin first. Not knowing any better, Slim would ride off on the tail of the stage, following it into town by the main road. More than likely, he’d be too late to warn the town, and Carlin would bust his man out without a hitch. If Jess cut across the ranch’s property—a much bigger spread than he’d initially thought, but one he knew in part—he could reach the ridge before the outlaws rendezvoused with Matt for the getaway. If surprise and terrain were on his side, he might even take out Carlin and his men without any new holes in his coat. He just had to get away from Slim, Andy, and Jonesy first, without letting on what he knew or where he was headed.

“Swing wide’a that stage, if you catch up with it,” Jonesy hollered after Slim, tromping purposefully over to the barn.

“He won’t do it, Jonesy, he’ll wade right into them!” Andy predicted fearfully.

Pulling on his coat, Jess stepped into the wind and walked up beside the kid, searching for words to both reassure him and dissuade him from doing anything foolish like following his older brother. But then Andy spun to face him, and panic flared up in Jess’s chest, train of thought derailing. The child was nearly in tears, clearly desperate. Jess didn’t have much for defenses against a crying little boy.

“Go with him, will ya, Jess?” Andy begged. “There’re more guns in the barn. He won’t have a chance alone.”

There came the tears, nearly tipping over his lashes, and Jess wished he could disappear into the ground. The wind curled around them, quieter but insistent, anxious, and he set his jaw against the powerful urge to give in.

“Someday, you’ll be in a jam,” Andy pushed.

“Yeah, and have to get out of it myself, like I always have.” The words came unbidden, and Jess was glad to let them loose, for once appreciative of his curse for harsh speech.

“Not if I’m with you,” Andy insisted, stepping in close. “You can’t let down a friend, Jess. You just can’t!”

Jess had never agreed with a sentiment more, and it occurred to him that perhaps that was why he’d gotten burned so many times over the years. Yanking his collar up, he leaned in towards Andy and reminded him, “He’s _not_ my friend.”

The little boy drew back, solemn, and let the first tears spill down his cheeks. “I thought I was.”

Aw, hell. Jess’d never felt lower, and he was only trying to do the right thing.

Jonesy finished rattling around in the barn and loped over, quick on his feet despite his back. He had two guns with him, and he paused beside Jess and Andy to check the drifter’s intentions. “One for you?”

“I’d like that handgun,” Jess told him, acutely aware of his empty holster. He had a derringer and a spare gun disassembled in his saddlebags, but more firepower never hurt.

“Are you goin’ with Slim?” the ranch hand questioned.

Jess met him stare for stare. “No.”

Narrowing his eyes at the dark-haired gunslinger, Jonesy pushed by without another word. Andy’s breath hitched, and when Jess looked back down at him, his cheeks were streaked with saltwater. “No wonder you travel alone,” the boy charged him, voice garbled by tears. “Who’d wanna travel with a saddle tramp like you?”

He tore off after Jonesy and his brother; Jess stood rooted to the spot, hands flexing. It’d have hurt less if Andy hacked him in the chest with an ax. Somewhere, in the space of an afternoon, he’d gone soft as butter, a hard voice sneered inside of him. A soft Jess Harper wasn’t any use to anyone, he reviled himself. Clawing back his resolve, the brunet spared one last glance towards Slim, Andy, and Jonesy, gathered by the pasture fence to saddle up Slim’s horse, and turned on his heel. Andy could hate him all he liked, and so could Slim. Better than having one dead and the other orphaned all over again.

Whistling for Traveler’s attention, he ran over and yanked his mount’s leads free, planting a foot on the water trough so he could leap up into the saddle. Traveler took his first stride before Jess was even seated, and they were off like lightning down the main road, charging west. Back the way they’d come: away from Laramie. As they galloped past the unfinished sign at the edge of the homestead, Jess knew they’d all see him and think he was running away. For once, he didn’t mind people thinking him a coward. Some things were worth a blackened name.


	7. Chapter 7

It didn’t take him long to relocate the thicket he’d crossed down through before, sure he could make it back to Baxter Ridge without any of the detours he’d taken earlier in the day. He rode hard, Traveler willing and able under his guidance, and they climbed up into the hills at a steady clip. He figured it’d take the rest of the day for Carlin to get in and out of Laramie, putting the gang at the rendezvous a bit before sunset. If Jess could get there and find himself a good position to shoot from, he’d be all set.

The trail he picked across the landscape was even more efficient than he’d hoped. As he crested the final rise, arriving at the windswept cliff near the end of Baxter Ridge, he heard a group of horses coming up the main road. He barely got Traveler hidden behind an outcropping before Matt and the gang’s horses rounded the bend. Barely checking his surroundings, the outlaw led the mounts to shelter at the base of the cliff, down below the road a ways.

Scoring the whole ridgeline with his eyes once, twice, and again by contrast, Jess dismounted and dug his spare guns out of his saddlebag. Tucking the derringer in his inner coat pocket, he left Traveler in some scrub trees behind the outcropping and crept for higher ground. By rote, his hands assembled and loaded his spare six shooter as he went.

He found a rock at the top of the cliff, just over and off to the side of Matt’s chosen spot, where he had an angle on the waiting horses and the easiest approach to them from the road. Settling in against the rough, dimpled stone, he chewed his lip, secured his hat against the swirling breeze, and rechecked his pistol. Jess’d set ambushes a time or two before; he knew their use. He sure did despise the waiting part of them, though.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the rumble of cartwheels and horse hooves drifted to his ears. Harnesses jangling and whip cracking, the stage appeared over a hill and barreled out to the end of Baxter Ridge. It rolled to a stop; Carlin and another man got out. Riding shotgun, Clint slapped the driver on the shoulder with a little too much familiarity before he dismounted. They’d probably gotten the stage employee in on their scheme. Jess would have to try and warn Slim, Jonesy, and Andy about that. Assuming he survived the next hour.

Abandoning any further thoughts on the driver’s betrayal, Jess tracked Carlin and his freed man as they ran down the slope towards the horses. Careful not to let his gun barrel catch the sunlight, he drew a bead on the infamous outlaw, aiming right for his drooping bowtie. Distantly, he heard the stage team start running again—but no, the gait was too fast too soon, and it was only one horse. Muttering an oath, Jess whipped his head up, watching the rise. 

A lone rider was approaching on the main road, hot on the trail of the stage. A pale hat and long body came into view over the hill, and Jess cursed again, mostly unsurprised. Slim had caught up to his quarries, and they’d know about it soon enough. The big man reined in for just a moment, considering the lay of the land, and then kicked his mount back up to speed.

In the meantime, Carlin and his other lackey reached the horses. Up beside the state still, Clint shouted to the driver, “And remember, Frankie: just keep goin’!”

The stage driver didn’t wait to be told twice, whipping his team up to speed and turning for open country. For the horses’ sake, Jess hoped he got back onto the road soon. As the sound of the team faded, Slim kept barreling down the road towards Clint. The outlaw heard him soon enough and hastily brought his rifle to bear. With a sigh, Jess gave up on the element of surprise and dropped him.

The jig was up; Carlin knew they were there. Jess turned and fired again before the three men below him started firing back, but he had to take cover quick. His shot went wide; there was a reason he only used that gun in emergencies. He’d always meant to get rifling in the barrel redone. He could cover for Slim while he rode up, though, so he started firing at the ground behind the horses, near enough to the gang that the men would dive for cover while the animals cut and ran. Firing back at him with shockingly poor aim, Carlin, Matt, and the last man sprinted for the cliff. They were stranded without transportation. Wiser than them, Slim left his horse back at the road and cut into the brush on the hill, going for a wider angle on the gang with his rifle.

There was a pause while everyone reloaded, giving the rancher ample time to find cover, and Jess shifted, unhappy that he couldn’t see the men pressed against the rock wall below him. He could keep them pinned on most sides, but there was too much of an overhang on the cliff for him to know he had them trapped for certain. Chewing his lip, he scouted around, trying to get Carlin and his cronies in sight. As always in a gunfight, his sensitive ears were ringing, further impaired by his roaring pulse. He both reveled and recoiled from the unusual quiet of the world around him. If they avoided shooting for long enough, he’d be back closer to normal, but that didn’t seem likely. Good thing he’d filled nearly all the bullet loops on his gun belt that morning.

Looking across, he spotted Slim behind an outcropping just as the cowboy figured out where he was hiding. Even that far away, the blond’s grin was plain to see. Jess smiled back.

The moment ended with a shot from below; one of the outlaws had spotted Slim, as well, and bounced a bullet off his cover. The gang was too low to have a clear shot, so Slim was safe so long as he stayed down. He didn’t, popping up to fire back. Jess shook his head, still smiling just a bit, and got back to business. While Slim and the outlaws were trading fire, he hopped up and took a more thorough look around, still hoping to get low enough to see Carlin.

Away from direct fire, his ears started to clear. Either his head was echoing, or there were more horses approaching. A whole herd of them. A posse was on its way. They were still long distant yet; the road must’ve gone over a hill as he heard them, because the sound dropped out after a moment. They’d gone into a valley. Fat lot of good a late cavalry would do him and Slim.

Jess took a second to reload, finally spotting a down-sloping ledge that might work for him. While he knelt to check for danger on it, though, he heard a faint scuff behind him. Somebody was back there, closer than a person should ever be when Jess had a gun in his hand. Throwing himself backwards, the gunslinger landed hard on his shoulders, dodging a bullet from the man behind him even as he put one of his own in the outlaw’s shooting arm. The man’s gun clattered off the rocks in front of him, and he fell flat, fingers clutching at the bloody spout Jess’d opened up in his shoulder.

It took him a moment to recover and lurch up, reaching for his gun, but Jess was standing over him by that point. “Hold it! Don’t reach for that gun.”

The gang member stopped and fell back a bit, and they both got a good look at each other.

The outlaw brightened considerably. “Jess!”

Dumbfounded, the young drifter could scarcely believe his eyes. “Well, what do ya know,” he growled. “Good ole Pete Morgan.” Pete had the gall to smile at him, and Jess nearly pounced then and there. There was still a gunfight going on, though; he couldn’t get tangled up and lose his gun. “So you hooked up with Bud Carlin, huh?”

Not answering, Morgan pushed up laboriously onto his knees, inching closer to his gun. “I’m hurt bad, Jess. Don’t shoot.”

He was taking a lot of things for granted, pushing closer to his sidearm like that. Jess’s lip twisted, wondering if Morgan knew just how bad off he’d left Jess when he robbed him and split. Probably not, or he wouldn’t dare test him like that. Pete had struck him down and stolen his money, sure, but the yellow-bellied coward had also run up a stampede of trouble to keep Jess from leaving town after him. With a past as checkered as he had, Jess had a lot to lose from misunderstandings with the law, and Morgan had used that to his full advantage.

Getting framed for murder was a tough rope for any man to wriggle out of, much less a known gunslinger. He’d given up a lot to ride outta that backwater town, and money was the least of it.

“I was hurt bad, too,” he seethed at his traitorous ex-partner, mind twisting back through iron bars and broken trust and collateral damage. “And it wasn’t just the money, Pete.”

As if in slow motion, he felt his hand drop, gun dangling loosely at his side. It wasn’t subsiding; it was bait. Half of Jess recoiled, knowing full well that he wasn’t giving Pete a real opening, that he was practically daring the man to sign his own death warrant. Morgan was desperate. He’d leap at any chance, even one as false as the pleading smile on his scarred face. His other half of Jess kept the gun where it was, burning bright and hateful inside him.

“I didn’t take it, Jess,” Morgan lied, getting up on the balls of his feet. Preparing to jump for his gun. “I swear I didn’t.”

He went for it. Far faster, Jess fired. As if from a long distance, the brunet watched his old friend’s body hurtle off over the cliff, flinched at the thud down below. Coldness settled in for a moment, foreign and thoughtful, to cover the uncomfortable twisting in his chest. He abstractly realized that his chase was over, his long hunt played out.

What the hell was he gonna do next?

Get shot, most likely. Flinching as gunfire rocked him out of his reverie, Jess dropped back into his hotter, clearer headspace and whirled back towards the fight, leaping down the path he’d found. He had to help Slim.

He made it down behind the last two outlaws just as Slim decided to bolt for a different patch of cover: long, tall, and upsettingly exposed amongst the scrub on his hill. While the much-reduced gang fired after him, Jess kicked a rock to get Matt’s attention and dropped the idiot when he spun around. Carlin, however, was back between two boulders, better covered and better at hiding. He fired rapidly until Jess dropped back around the cliff.

Six shots came and went; Carlin had to reload. Jess was about to pop out and finish the job when he saw Slim creeping around the cliff. How the big man had made it over there so fast was a mystery to him, and even more mind boggling, he was walking on top of a mess of shale gravel and sticks—some of the loudest terrain there was—without a sound. Amazed, Jess found himself stopping to watch, still alert for Carlin, but smiling wide at the blond giant’s inexplicable stealth. The outlaw turned too late; Slim shot the gun right out of his hand.

Instead of holding the outlaw at gunpoint, though, Slim kicked the pistol away, dropped his rifle, too, and leapt on the man. Seemed he was holding a bit of a grudge, after all. Law and order be damned.

Grinning, Jess kept him covered and let him give Carlin his due. It was a scramble, thanks to the terrain, but soon Slim had the lawbreaker in hand. He tackled Carlin to the ground when he tried to run, and without any cronies to interfere on his behalf, the older man couldn’t do much but wriggle. Holstering his gun, Jess looked down at Matt’s body and saw mother-of-pearl in the dirt beside him. Collecting his and Slim’s guns, he strode cheerfully over towards the two men as Slim gained the upper hand and backed Carlin up against the cliff.

“You like to watch, huh?” Slim goaded him, holding his open hand up in front of Carlin’s face. “Well, watch this!”

He socked him across the jaw as Jess came up to them, and the young drifter couldn’t resist throwing more of Carlin’s words back at him. “Hey. All your might!”

Slim held Carlin up by his vest and made a fist that time, spinning the outlaw back into the cliff with a haymaker. Jess nodded in mock approval. “That was better. Now, let’s see a real good one.” He leaned over Carlin’s bent, shaking shoulders. “And this time, don’t roll with the punch!”

Meeting his eyes briefly, a sparkle in his cornflower gaze, Slim stepped forward and hauled Carlin back to his feet. “Get up.”

Drawing back farther than before, he hit Carlin square on the jaw, and that time, it was lights out. As Carlin crumpled to the ground, Jess stepped up beside the tall rancher and adjusted his hat, nodding in admiration. He mocked the outlaw one final time, “See, boy, that was just fine.”

Exhaling and propping his hands on his gun belt, Slim looked up, grinning. Jess shifted closer with a crooked smile. Handing the rancher his reclaimed sidearm, he wanted to praise the man in his own words, but the riders he’d been tracking along the road finally made it into view. Turning to watch the posse ride towards them, Jess and Slim bumped shoulders. Neither of them moved away.

“That’ll save us the trouble of taking this crow bait to town,” Jess observed. He glared down at the unconscious Carlin, noting out of the corner of his eye that Slim didn’t look at all impressed with the posse’s late arrival. It pleased a dark part of him mightily to see the cowboy’s formidable scowl turned on a pack of lawmen. He doubted Slim knew the face he was making.

It didn’t stay long. Slim’s eyes flicked down to Carlin, to Jess, and then all around, and quick as that, he was worried. “Hey, where’s Andy?” Jess turned to face him and found himself uphill, level with the giant’s eyes for once. Concern practically shone out of Slim’s face. “Did he come here?”

The prospect had Slim almost beside himself. Jess couldn’t believe he’d entertained the thought of him beating on his kid brother. Big and burly as he was, the rancher was hardwired for worrying. Overprotectiveness was chasing Andy away from him faster than any dire disagreements, Jess figured.

“No, and he doesn’t know I did,” Jess told him. Slim’s shoulders slumped in relief, and Jess felt a rare rush of vindication. He’d made the right choice, tricking the kid into staying behind. It’d kept both brothers safe and sound—excepting the gunfight Slim had joined him for, of course. “You’d better get back soon. He’ll be worryin’.”

Slim nodded, but he made no move to leave yet. “How’d you get here ahead of me?”

“I heard that one say ‘Baxter,’” Jess revealed, nodding back towards Matt’s body. “The only place by that name that I’ve seen around here is this ridge.” He smirked. “I came the short way.” Slim looked out across the land, back towards the ranch and the way Jess must’ve ridden, and the brunet laughed. “I had to cut across your private property again. I’m sorry about that.”

In stark contrast to his morning demeanor, Slim laughed, too. “Well, I won’t charge ya this time.”

The posse was nearly on them; Jess’s skin crawled to have that many badges so close. Looking down at Carlin one last time, he mused, “Well, I guess I’ll be ridin’ on.” He looked back at Slim and wondered why the man’s smile was so much smaller all of a sudden. “Tell Andy, uh,” he waited a second for his next words to evaporate. However, they still held true when he thought about it, so he said them aloud. “Tell him I’ll stop by sometime when the featherdown grows out.”

Slim nodded, offering, “Ride back through Laramie; I’ll buy you a drink.”

Tempting, but Jess felt a growing need for a clean break. He’d been too comfortable with Jonesy and Andy, too at home in that ranch house, and with Slim coming around to him, he suspected it’d be too easy to befriend the other man. He’d just finished killing the last close friend he’d dared to have; he wasn’t ready to risk any sort of attachment for a long while yet. If ever again. Swallowing, he kept his smile firmly in place and shook his head.

“Uh uh. Remember what Jonesy said? For medical purposes only,” he reprimanded Slim, slapping him lightly on the shoulder and stepping by.

He didn’t look back as he strode through the descending pack of lawmen, ignoring any questions except one, and telling that man to go ask Slim. They got the picture. He climbed back up to where he’d left Traveler; the knot in his chest loosened substantially when he found the horse safe and sound, munching happily on scrub grass. Patting his dearest companion on the neck, Jess gave the bay a quick once-over to ensure that there’d been no damage done during the gunfight and then swung up into the saddle.

Cattle country swept out below him, broad and beautiful, in its own way, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the wind fully stop. Jess breathed in deep, smelling gunpowder, horse, and death over a fine perfume of juniper and sage. He could see a blond head far down below, bobbing up over a swarm of hats and dark locks. His lips quirked; the breeze rose again. 

Turning his horse away from the valley and its strange inhabitants, Jess let Traveler pick his way across the backcountry until they were back on the main road. He didn’t know where he was going, but it always felt right to get back on the move.

...Almost always.


	8. Chapter 8

He hadn’t ridden long before he heard hoofbeats behind him, and for some reason, he slowed Traveler even more, letting the rider following him close the gap. He resisted the urge to look back; when the other horse drew within normal shouting distance, he knew whose voice would be calling out.

“Jess!” Slim hollered, coming up fast. “Jess!” Quelling a smile, Jess finally looked back as the cowboy reined in alongside him. Raising an eyebrow, he tilted his head in askance, and Slim’s answering smile verged on self-conscious. “You’re a hard man to catch up with.”

Normally, Jess would agree with him, but there he was on a main road, which he normally avoided, riding a very fast horse at a very sedate speed. His mind had done some scheming without his say-so, he realized. Keeping that to himself, he reasoned, “I wanna make the next town before dark.”

Slim didn’t bother hiding his agenda, suggesting with a smile, “We could use an extra hand around here. Wouldn’t pay much, but—”

“I like being my own boss,” Jess negated him.

He liked being bondless and footloose even more. No more Pete Morgans, that was his new goal. Bedding down with the likes of Slim’s little family would only be setting Jess up for future woes, and he didn’t have any more room for knives left in his back. ...Not that he believed, for a second, that Slim nor Andy nor even Jonesy would do him wrong the way Pete had. No, if Jess went with Slim, any trouble between them would be his own doing, and it'd leave him in even worse shape than Pete had managed.

Slim pursed his lips, casting his eyes out over the hills, and Jess could see clearly how much the big man valued what he saw. “There’s a real future here, Jess. Finest cow country in Wyoming territory.” He looked over, earnest and hopeful. “What do ya say? This could lead to something.”

“Yeah, it sure could,” Jess agreed. He wasn’t thinking about cows. “Trouble.”

“Why don’t we take that chance?” Slim challenged him, and while Jess looked down to find something to say, he spurred his horse into a gallop. “Come on, we’ll be late for supper!”

Traveler bounded a few steps after the other steed, clearly up for the offer, but Jess reined him in. Watching after Slim’s receding back, the drifter felt a hundred things race through his head, passing too fast for him to examine. It was the feeling in his chest that won out over the rest: the start of a warm, untangling sensation that let him breathe easier than he’d known was possible. The wind swept up at his back, pushing him forwards, and he smiled bemusedly to himself. Traveler felt him relax and took off after Slim’s horse. Not thinking too hard about it, Jess let out the reins and let Slim lead.

Slim knew his land better and brought them on a faster track than Jess’s route; they were back at the homestead much quicker. Jess smelled horses, food, and cattle before they came into view, and when he did catch sight of the house, the first thing he focused on was the little hat down by the pasture gate. Andy beat a stick against the rails and then tossed it away in frustration, walking back towards the house with his head bent. All over again, Jess was fiercely happy that the kid and his brother were safe.

Slim’s horse knew its home and picked up speed, forging ahead towards the house and barn. Showing a rare moment of awareness, Andy turned and looked right at them. Teeth flashing white and happy in his small face, he ran towards them and whooped, jumping in the air. They came down to the road as he neared the end of the corral, and Slim leaned over and slapped his little brother’s outstretched hand as he rode by. Andy turned and ran back alongside them, beaming from ear to ear. He shot Jess a glance so glad and so grateful, Jess nearly looked over his shoulder for the person the kid was looking at. Then the boy was off to the house, shouting excitedly for Jonesy.

“Jonesy, they’re back! Both Slim _and_ Jess! You hear me Jonesy? They’re back!” he yelled, throwing the kitchen door open. “Come on, Jonesy! Slim’s back, and Jess is with him!”

Traveler followed Slim’s horse up to the corral fence. Good thing, too, because Jess wasn’t paying any mind, staring after the child shouting his name with something akin to amazement. Hours before, he’d made that kid cry like he’d just shot every animal in his menagerie. He was certain Andy would hate him for deserting his brother until the day he died, but there he was, jubilant. Knowing nothing except that Slim and Jess had ridden in together, the boy readily assumed it was because Jess had gone off and been a good friend after all.

The fact that it was true—Jess really had Slim’s back that afternoon, and Slim his—was almost as surprising. Jess watched Andy leave the door swinging and bound back to them. Deep down, he felt one of the hardest linchpins in him, long mangled up and mired in conflict, give out.

Turning his face into the warm breeze, Jess swung down from his horse. Andy came up fast and planted a hand in his chest, making delighted noises as he turned to greet Slim the same way, and Jonesy finally made his way out of the house, a real smile gracing the corner of his mouth. Grinning down at Andy and then over his head at his waiting brother, Jess nodded.

“All right, deal me in.” He leaned on the rail and adjusted his hat against the swirling breeze as Jonesy came up beside them. “We’ll play a hand or two and see how it works out.”

“Yeah, but don’t deal any off the bottom,” Jonesy advised wryly.

Laughing along with the rest of them, Jess turned and started unsaddling Traveler. There was an air of finality to the familiar motions. His horse met his eye, content and knowing, and Jess echoed the sentiment in that brown gaze. He wouldn’t think it again, would never say it aloud. But stopping felt good. Looking ahead at the future felt unnatural--but good, too. He pulled his worn saddlebags off his horse and turned to follow Slim into the barn, knowing that he carried all his worldly possessions in that one armful. What might it be like, to be a part of something permanent? A house with real walls, a day of honest work. He still owed Traveler oats, a lifetime’s worth of them. Maybe he’d finally get to give them to him.

Maybe, after all that riding, they might finally be home.

**Author's Note:**

> I very fondly remember watching westerns with my grandparents when I was young, and now that we’ve lost them, my dad and I watch Grandma and Grandpa’s favorite shows to remember them by. Westerns showcase some of the finer points of American values—hard work, integrity, cooperation, adventure—but they are also vignettes of an imperfect time, created by imperfect people. As I got older, it was hard to see past the worst parts of westerns to their enjoyable core. The rampant sexism and racism ruined it for me. I started to wonder why so much bad had gotten thrown in there to counterbalance the good.
> 
> Because I didn’t want to have uncomfortable conversations with my loved ones, I didn’t watch many westerns with my grandparents during the last years of their life. My dad and I had to have a long talk before we started up the practice again. Though it’s always good to think critically about the media we consume, we can’t change what’s already been made; we have to decide how we feel about it as it is.
> 
> That cannot be said for fanfiction! I have a lot of plans for these fellas and this world. I'll keep writing this new Laramie into being, and while I do, I'd love to hear what you think of it as we go along!
> 
> I can't thank you enough for reading my story. I hope you had as much fun as I did writing it. 
> 
> Take care of yourselves and each other. Someone's got to.
> 
> Peace,  
> Knyle B.


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